I made a U-ey and parked about forty feet away from him. I said, “Hey!” and squatted down. When he turned around, I put my hands out to the sides. He broke into a slow gallop and flopped himself into my arms.
He was a little shorter and thinner than Violet, maybe 50 pounds; his head, however, was like a damn double-wide mobile home. He wore no collar, but he wasn’t dirty or too skinny. I gave him some stale crackers that a friend had left in my car a couple months ago and looked around. Nobody was out looking for a lost dog. In fact, no one was out on foot at all. That street is really trafficky, and people drive way too fast down it so I hoisted him into the Outback and took him home.
I was a little worried about introducing him to the pack. Redford has been less-than-mellow at times lately, and Violet’s knee is still all jacked up. Plus, Double-Wide was intact, or unaltered, as they say…whatever, he still had his balls, which can translate into aggression.
But I let Redford into the backyard with him anyway. They scampered and cavorted. Redford fussed at him a little bit, but DW quickly submitted, and the pecking order was established.
I switched out Redford and Violet, and
I reluctantly—reluctantly because I was already wicked fond of the little guy—sent a message to my neighborhood listserv, left a voicemail with Animal Control (they were closed for the holiday), put a post up on Craig’s List, tacked a “Found” notice on the neighborhood grocery store’s bulletin board, and uploaded photos to Facebook. I asked everyone who walked by my house if they’d heard of anybody missing a dog. One girl said, “Oh, he’s been out for a minute. I seen him yesterday.”
The little guy didn’t know any commands, not even “Sit”, and when we headed out for our two-and-a-half-mile neighborhood loop, he acted like he’d never been on-leash. He jumped around, snatching the lead in his mouth, and criss-crossed a million times, wrapping me up in a nylon boa.
He wasn’t totally housebroken either. I kept hearing Violet do her Enforcer Bark, the one she uses on Redford when he’s about to take something off the counter or he’s standing too close to me while I’m cooking bacon. I’d turn around and find everybody staring at each other, and I couldn’t figure out what was going on. Later, I found little yellow drips on the floor and the bookcase and the chaise and realized Violet was being the big sister.
I got a response from Craig’s List, but it seemed spammy, and the pics they sent of their “missing dog” looked nothing like DW. Indeed, a second email came in this morning from a different address but with the same pictures of “Cowboy”.
Late last night, I spoke to somebody who knows about these things, and that person said, by law, strays have to be turned in to the shelter in case somebody’s looking for him. They keep him there for five days and then do temperament testing to see if he can be adopted.
So, I just went to the Animal Protection Society of Durham. DW tried to make a girlfriend first thing. Balls. But he was really nice about it. If he’d had the ability or know-how, I think he would’ve sweet-talked her a little first.
They scanned him for a microchip. I wasn’t surprised to find out he didn’t have one.
I have a friend who works at the shelter, and she said she’ll keep an eye on him. She even said she’d consider fostering him if it came to that.
And then I said goodbye to DW, and they took him in the back. And I boo-hooed.
