Nope. It was a dog. Another stray dog. The neighborhood has been the dumping grounds for every sorry SOB within 20 miles that doesn’t want to deal with an unwanted animal. Juno, that’s what the Missus named her dog, was found lost and scared in the nearby woods soon after we moved here. He’s still with us. The same can be said for a dozen other animals that the residents have taken it.
The dog on the front porch was the classic dumped dog, scared, cold, and wet. The howling north wind didn’t help the situation. The mutt wa brown, short-haired, young, and of questionable heritage. However, he did have a collar with a tag and was dragging a leash. Obviously it belonged to someone, or used to.
In most cases like this, the Missus goes directly into her EMSA rescue mode while I stand by in support or maybe I just go back to watching the Discovery Channel. Whatever. This night, she has chosen to watch TV in the bedroom, probably another Spenser Tracy movie, but when I call out for a little support of my own, I get no reply.
With one bad arm, I’m having a hard time holding the dog calm enough to read the information on the tag. The dog wants no part of coming in the house. I ring the doorbell. Again! Still nothing. Yeah, I could have let the dog loose and searched for the Missus, but the presence of the leash had me a little concerned. I thought it best to keep it under control until we could get to the bottom of this. The Missus knows every dog in the neighborhood on sight. I need assistance here. I yell. I try the doorbell again. Nada.
Well crap. I take the dog by the leash, and in my stocking feet, walk through the wet grass to the bedroom window and pound on the glass. Nope. Go to the back door. Locked of course. Pound again. Finally, the redhead comes through the doorway rubbing her eyes.
“I must have fallen asleep.”
“No shit? You know this dog?”
“Never seen it before.”
With my newfound , but bleary-eyed assistant, we learn the name of the vet where the tag was issued and make out the personal ID number.
Juno, on the other hand, is fully awake and loudly voicing his disapproval of this mongrel that had the audacity to invade his territory. Co-habitation for the night seems unlikely. With few options, we decide to let the dog fend for himself on the covered patio and wait until morning to call the vet’s office.
At dawn, the mutt is still there (of course), camped out and warm on an old blanket the Missus has provided. Did he get a hearty breakfast? Is Rush Limbaugh a jerk? Now, in good light, I can see where someone has tried to scratch out the ID number. Uh oh, not a good sign. The problem is, we are not residents of Sand Springs where the dog pound is. We’re in Osage County that has no animal shelter facilities. If you’re a stray in Osage County, you either get taken in by a kind soul or you die of hunger. The pressure is on and the mutt knows it. Talk about suckin’ up. We got the sad eyes goin’ on. We’re lickin. We’re rubbin’. I’m thinkin’… this is gonna get ugly.
The lady at the vet’s office responds that “Yes, we do show that number as being one of our customers and I will call them.” Whew. Things are looking up. An hour goes by. I check for dial tone. The lines are up and the phone is working. Another hour. No ring-a-ding. We call the vet again.
“I talked to the lady at the number. She said she would call you.”
“ Well, Darlin’, how about you ring her again okay?” Soon after, we get the call.
“I was asleep when the vet called,” the woman said. “I thought I might have dreamed it.”
Oh boy. But she does agree to come get the dog “as soon as I get around.”
And so she did. But she left us something to remember her by, two deep ruts in my wet lawn where she meandered off the driveway.
I hope the dog bit her.
Very funny, especially you roaming around outside in the wet grass in your socks. amb
ReplyDeleteOh, now, ruts are better than another border, aren't they? Just sayin.
ReplyDelete