“I found the key!”

Monday morning, March 4th, 2013, I took my dog to nearby Boughton Park (“BOW-tin;” as in “wow”).
She loves it. Smells galore! Poop to eat. Doggie Heaven. We walk about four miles on leash — she’s run away. If she sees a critter, like a deer, she’s gone. I’ve been dragged off-path.
Since I’d slept in about a half-hour, and had to go to the bank afterwards, I thought I’d be getting home after the mail had been delivered.
So after I put my van away in the garage, I walked out my driveway to my mailbox.
I apparently tried to put my van-key in my pocket, but I missed.
My van-key is separate; too big to be on a keychain.
No mail yet, so I went back in my house and began various duties, feeding the dog and myself in preparation for a shower.
I keep the car-keys in a box on my dresser, since they’re radio keys, too big for a keychain.
I went to put my van-key in the box, but it wasn’t in my pocket.
Now what! What did I do with that key?
It was on my property somewhere, because I had used it park-to-bank-to-home, but no sign of it.
I retraced my steps and poked around my garage. I also checked jacket pockets where I might have put the key in error.
No key.
I have extra keys for my van, including the non-radio key that doesn’t open the glovebox.
So missing a key is not a tragedy. I could still drive my van.
I gave up. Sooner-or-later that key would turn up, probably long after I traded my van, which may be by week’s end; a newer car has already been agreed to.
I took my shower and poked around in my garage again afterward.
Gaffs like this are mightily depressing now that I’m alone — my wife died almost a year ago.
There’s no longer anyone to help look for a key, or hold my hand.
I no longer have a cheering-section.
I called my cleaning-lady, who was going to come that day, but couldn’t, to tell her I was out of the shower.
“If you see a key,” I told her “grab it!” I don’t know what I did with that key.”
“It’s probably right where you left it,” she laughed.
I told her gaffs like that get me mightily depressed, now that I lack a cheering-section.
“I’m your cheering-section!” she exclaimed.
After hanging up I went back out to get my mail.
There in my driveway, encrusted in ice, was the missing key.
I had to call my cleaning-lady a couple hours later to tell her I would be working out at the YMCA Tuesday, March 5th, the day she was now gonna come. So I probably wouldn’t be home; she’d have to let herself in. I trust her; she knows where my secret door-key is.
I mentioned I found the key
“Probably where you left it,” she said.
Well, not exactly,” I said. “It was in my driveway. Apparently it missed my pocket as I went to check my mailbox.
This isn’t the first time,” I told her.
“The same thing happened not long ago in the Boughton Park parking-lot. No key after walking my dog, but there it lay in the parking-lot, where it had been the whole time I walked my dog.”

• Boughton Park is a fairly-large town park in East Bloomfield where I walk my dog. I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester. (West Bloomfield is one of the three towns that own and administer the park.)
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is my sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)