“Awww…he looks lost and hungry. Maybe you should offer him a snack?”
It was back in the first weekend or so of our state’s [first] stay-at-home order, and the family and I were just relaxing on our screened-in porch1Bougie Alert! enjoying breakfast and the new, slower pace of life. The Boss Lady had seen some light commotion at the edge of our neighbor’s yard behind me, and her investigative efforts had revealed a cute beagle on the loose.
Now, the last time I got involved with a loose dog in the neighborhood, it ended with me calling 911 and then cleaning some canine blood off our hardwood floors2Yet another Bougie Alert!…but that’s a story for another time. Suffice it to say, I was initially reticent to get involved, but clearly this poor lost soul was tugging at the heartstrings of the ever-empathetic Boss Lady, and thus my involvement in this act of Good Samaritianism began…
With the remnants of one of my household-famous Saturday Pancakes in hand, I gently approached the prodigal pup. He stopped sniffing about all the vegetation that created the border between our yard and our neighbors’ long enough to gibble that ‘cake down, lickity-split.
“Wow, he must be real hungry,” I thought to myself. “Maybe he’s thirsty, too?”
While the Boss Lady fixed up a bowl of random human foods–you know, the usual: Cheerios, peanut butter, carrots & celery3If you’re thinking “WTF?!?” then you’re not alone. I sure was confused by what she deemed canine cuisine.–I filled up a bowl with water from our garden hose.
“Hmmm, that’s odd. He’s not interested one bit in the water” the dialogue in my head continued. “Oh well, let’s see if he eats any of this–wait! Wha??? The hell is this?!?”
That last part was out loud as I was mildly taken aback by the hodge-podge of edibles that the Boss Lady had charged me with feeding ol’ Puppus.4Not his real name…just got tired of flipping to the entry for “Dog” in my trusty thesaurus.
Critically, though, peanut butter was involved, and you know them dogs love them some peanut butter, so it wasn’t long before Puppus was in the middle of our backyard selectively dining from the bowl in my hand.
I attempted to take this opportunity to read the tags on his collar in hopes of finding his rightful owner–who was no doubt searching for him in angst at this point.
However, Puppus turned out to be quite the rascal, and had decided to move on to our other neighbors’ yard and engage in some more kind-hearted human hustling.
While I was dog-whistling5I think this means something else…something much worse. I’m just using it literally here. in vain as he eagerly sniffed around our neighbors’ deck, the wife, “Boba,6It’s a form of “grandma,” which we use since our girls play with their grandkids all the time (or at least used to) and they are essentially another set of grandparents. In case you were wondering.” came out to investigate.
Boba and I quickly concocted a plan to use one of her dog leashes to wrangle him, then I would snap a few pictures and send out an email on our neighborhood listserv to aid in reuniting him with his Master/Mistress.
Oh, that’s right–you remember our neighborhood listserv. You know, the one I used to shout from the rooftops that I was an irresponsible father and/or incompetent business man in The First Rule Of Dealing Club? Yeah, that one. But this time it would be solely used for the good of dog-kind.
Now this was easier said than done, but after chasing him through even the yards of 2 or 3 more neighbors, I finally out-maneuvered that rascal and caught up with him coming out to the sidewalk along the street.
And with that, this had become a public affair. Given the need for social-distancing–even amongst neighbors–this wasn’t necessarily a positive development.
I corralled Puppus back to Boba’s house with the help of the remaining peanut butter, where she met him with the leash.
…and then came along who I would soon discover to be the neighborhood busy-body.
A woman, out for a walk with her family, saw Boba with Puppus and decided to help out while I went to go get my phone so I could take some mugshots.
As I walked away, I could hear them discussing the dog tags. It seems there was only information from the shelter from which he had apparently been adopted, but nothing directly linking him to his owner. Within a few moments I could hear the mild-mannered conversation turn into a light hub-bub. Not quite a commotion, just a hub-bub.
“LOOK OUT! He’s escaaaaaaaped!” I heard Boba call out, as I turned around to see Puppus eagerly ambulating in my direction, finally free from not only the leash, but his collar as well. Why, that slippery little eel!
That was it: it was time to get physical.
After about a minute or so, I was able to secure him in a comfortable half-Nelson wrestling hold. Well, comfortable for him, but quite awkward for me, as I, with my questionable back, was halfway bent over in a rather untenable position.
Meanwhile, Boba and the Busybody had came over to assist, but apparently determined that I had the situation fully under control. With absolutely no sense of urgency, Boba would start to attempt to re-leash the hound before pausing to further discuss with the Busybody how great animal rescue shelters were, whether this particular one would be open on a Sunday morning, and which one of them should call. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
Start. Stop. Start. Stop–just put the ----- leash on the dog!
I did a decent job of remaining gracious outwardly, but on the inside, uh, not so much.
They were just fine with being a bunch of Chatty Cathys while I was struggling mightily to maintain control of Puppus, with my arm muscles growing tired7Have you ever tried to see how long you could hold your hands against the roof of your car? Then you know exactly how I felt, and how it didn’t take long to get worn out. and my back about to give out at any second.
That was all bad enough as it was, but what I was really screaming in my head was “SIX FEET, PEOPLE! SIIIIIIIIX FEEEEEEET! What the hell is wrong with you?!?”
And this was somewhat justified, as I honestly couldn’t quite be sure that I didn’t have El Virus (thanks to a very wonderful and active NC allergy season), and I really didn’t feel like contributing to Boba’s ill-being…though I couldn’t exactly say the same for the Busybody…
At long last, they wrapped up their friendly conversation, allowing Boba to get ol’ Numb-nuts secured. I snapped a few pics and confirmed with Boba that she would be keeping him at her house so I could include her cell number and address in the APB I was to send out to the neighborhood.
Home. I was finally back in the comfort of my own home where I could compose said message and wash my hands of the whole ordeal.
You know, an uncomplicated message, a sweet and simple note like this:
Of course I couldn’t lead my neighbors into falsely believing that I might be a competent functioning adult, so I quickly had to follow it up with this:
So, apart from that little misfire, the email hit paydirt within the hour:
“RUSTY” Aha! Now we had a proper name to put to our little shenigan-maker’s face…
Except…there was something about this email that didn’t quite sit right with me, at least at first glance. Why were they giving out my address. No, I’m the one who found him, he’s not my dog.
I had to read it slowly a few times before I caught the “sounds like they live close to you” part.
Oh. That wasn’t our address–it was one digit off. It was our other [non-Boba] neighbors’ address.
You know, the neighbors in whose backyard we had discovered Free-Range Rusty in the first place…
Sh*t.
It was dawning on me what we had just done.
“What did you get me into?!?” I rumbled as I barrelled into the kitchen where the Boss Lady was dutifully preparing lunch.
“Oh. So you saw the email, too, huh?”
“WHAT HAVE WE DONE?!?”
“But you know how pitiful and hungry he looked…”
Unmoved by her logic I just stared at her for a moment.
There was another long pause as we basked in our utter embarrassment before the Boss Lady broke the silence.
“Sooo…I guess we’re the type of monsters now who would snatch a dog or child from their own backyard, huh?”
“I’ve just been an unwitting accomplice in a dog-napping, thanks to you! And they all think it’s me–not you–who’s responsible for the missing dog. I DON’T NEED ANY HELP RUINING MY NEIGHBORHOOD REPUTATION!”
“Look, no one needs to know the truth, okay? Look at me. Look me in the eye. This is our little secret. Promise me.”
Frustrated by the unforced error that she had foisted upon me, I couldn’t help get in one last shot.
“Ughh… ----- you and you’re bleeding heart…”
Roll forward to a few hours later, when I got a private email from yet another concerned neighbor (apparently also one completely unconcerned with punctation):
I shot him back a quick reply to put his mind at ease:
I probably shouldn’t have included that last bit–remember I had a secret to keep, and that extra information was flirting with disaster.
I gotta say that I was a little surprised by his reply:
LOL–“Thank G0d for you.”
Oh, little did he know…little did he know.
Okay, so really the point of the story is, you can aspire to be an upstanding citizen who attempts to proactively contribute to the good of their community all you want. It’s a noble enough goal.
But you have to be at peace with the fact that sometimes, at the end of the day, people may only see you for the acrostic8In case the joke gets lost: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acrostic list of crimes and misdemeanors that you’ve managed to inadvertentyly commit along the way:
- Aggravated canine restraint
- Dognapping (not the same thing as above)
- Impersonating a hero
- Probably gave Boba the ‘Rona…so manslaughter?
- Strangling the Busybody [but only in my heart]
- Hooliganism9This one actually is a crime: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Category:Crimes
- Information Technology Ineptitude
- Trespassing
10Remember, the Word of the Day is: acrostic.
Content created on: 28/29 May 2020 (Thurs/Fri)
Footnotes & References:
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