Like crocodile wrangling, dog rescuing is all about…stupidity.
So I see this dog wandering up and down my street. Then the dog crosses over to the other side and does it again. I look for an owner. Nothing. I call to the dog and the shaggy devil runs off towards the busy street I neighbor. I ask the boy next door (20-something and last seen walking along above-mentioned busy street with a suspiciously super-Rasta Rastafarian – you draw your own conclusions) for some help with the dog while I put the kids to bed (it was nap time). The boy next door nods and then disappears inside his house never to return.
That’s how I found myself outside after bottles and stories and new super-absorbant diapers, chasing a dog that looks something like this
with treats. Eventually I corner the dog in a neighbor’s driveway. But then I chicken out before I can grab him. So I corner him again. And again, chicken out. This goes on for some time.
Eventually however,I do grab his collar and…no tags.
So I take the poor old thing (because now I can see that A) it’s a him B) he’s super old and C) he’s having major hip problems and can barely walk) to my house where I lock him in the front yard. He’s a sweet old guy, scared and hurting, and I can tell he just wants to get home, but somehow can’t find it. I bring him food and water and a blanket that I put under a tree so he can rest in the shade. The other boy next door (20-something, grad student studying either physics or Greek, looks like Clark Kent, have never seen him with a Rastafarian and doubt he even knows what one is) sweetly offers to help me once he gets back from school. In the meantime I call, email, and call again every vet, dog groomer, and neighborhood association in the area. Then I make my husband take the poor old guy to a local vet to see if he has a microchip or if he’s seriously hurt. Turns out his hips were just tired from walking so much when he was lost and other than a testicle that looked cancerous, the dog was in great shape. Not even a flea! And in addition to no tags, no microchip.
So Sam brings the dog back home (we built a ramp to help him in and out of the Prius) and just as he’s loading our new dog out of the trunk a little girl walks by. “Lucky!” she yells.
Yup, his name is Lucky and the sweet old bird lives in the same spot we do one block over. That’s why he kept walking up and down our street – he was disoriented. He had the location almost right. Her aunt asked how long we’d had him (almost 8 hours) and told us they never knew he was gone until the little girl got home. We chalked the vet fees down to “goodwill.”
It was stressful day, but my children still are talking about Lucky and how lucky he was that mommy found him. Moral of the story…I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Dog rescuing. It’s as stupid as crocodile wrangling.