As we shuffled down our own street with our group of trick-or-treaters, the home stretch to escaping back into the warmth of our house and watching Little L consume extraordinary amounts of fruit-flavored sugar, a woman stopped, looked at Little L, and said, "Oh! You're the Dalmatian!"

Then she looked at Axel and me. "Her ears are over on Fun Street!" Meanwhile, Little L was already at the door of the next house, no doubt hoping they would dump handfuls of candy in her bag.

I looked over at her bouncing figure: Dalmatian shirt, leggings, and tutu piled on over layers of other clothing.

On her head, she wore only a white hat. No ears in sight.

"They're right near the stop sign on the corner," she said, giving me her address. "I set them to the side on the sidewalk."

After she gathered her last candy, at Little L's urging, I trudged over to the nearby corner. It had snowed that night, so looking for Dalmatian ears amidst the patches of green grass and white snow in the dark was a bit of a challenge.

While I was looking, the woman I'd previously seen came up to me. "They were right here," she said, pointing to an earless patch on the sidewalk. "Someone must have taken them." Also, how was it that she was everywhere? Some sort of Halloween costume fairy godmother?

"I was going to ask at that house right there," I told her, pointing to a lit-up house on the corner.

"Oh! That's our house! I'll go in and see if anyone turned them in to my parents; they're in there."

She returned a minute later. Empty-handed.

I hurried home, though I honestly wasn't all that cold with my three layers of pants, shirts, and a jacket. I was showing this Minnesota Halloween who was boss. I braced myself as I entered the door. Little L, like any kid, doesn't like to lose things. Especially an item from her coveted Halloween costume. Now you might be thinking, but she hadn't noticed until the helpful neighbor pointed it out, to which I say, exactly.

I walked in to see Little L at the dining room table, wearing her new pair of Halloween PJs, with a pile of pink, brown, and yellow wrappers in front of her.

"I didn't find it," I said, bracing myself for what was to come.

"You can just buy a new one," she said, popping a strawberry Starburst in her mouth.

Now, you might think, she didn't even say please. Don't worry. I made her say please.

Both Axel and I were extremely relieved there was no yelling, crying, or tricks to end this Halloween night. She literally gave us permission to solve the problem with a little bit of consumerism. No wandering the neighborhood in the snow for weeks to come. "Sure, honey," I said. "We can look into how to get some more ears." We were obviously not rebuying the entire costume.

The next morning on the way to the bus stop, we kept our eyes peeled as we walked by the partially squirrel-eaten pumpkins on our neighbor's stoops. Maybe we'd find some ears.

And we did! Only they weren't Little L's. They weren't even doggie ears.

I snapped a pic, because, you know, I had this blog post in mind.

That day at my school, I went into the second grade classrooms to teach my weekly lesson.

I couldn't resist showing them a photo of Little L dressed as a Dalmatian and asking if any of them happened to see any errant Dalmatian ears as they made their way through the neighborhood.

Sadly, I had no takers.

Then I showed a photo of the fox ears I'd seen on my walk to work that morning. A hand shot up. "Those are my friend's." I'll admit, I was skeptical. But still, I couldn't resist the idea of rescuing someone's ears, if not Little L's. "I'll get them and bring them for you to give to her," I said.

But on the way home from work that day, they were gone.

"I guess people just pick up ears," Axel said while scrolling through his phone trying to find a way to purchase the Dalmatian ears only, rather than a whole other costume.

And then the next morning, on the way to the bus-- there they were! No, not the Dalmatian ears. The fox ears. But at this point, I was thrilled for any ears to appear in my path.

I gave them to my student with a note that said, "for your friend." The next week, when I came her classroom, I asked if she'd gotten them back to her friend. She smiled and nodded, the accomplished expression of someone who found the ears they were looking for.

From there, I'll admit that I forgot about Little L's ears.

Until an entire month later, when Axel received a package from Azerbaijan. The customs declaration listed "Sale of Goods."

I thought it would be some obscure tech part he'd bought on eBay. But when he opened it up, it turned out it was an obscure costume part he bought on eBay.

"They were only $4!" he exclaimed. "We just had to wait awhile for them to arrive."

Little L, of course, had long since forgotten about her missing ears. She was more concerned about Santa at this point.

But now we have a complete costume. Just in case.

I feel like there's a lesson in here somewhere, but it's hard to say. I'm too busy looking for the next lost thing.