I just had a Wacky Adventure! Of my very own! Well, mildly wacky and adventurous, anyway.
On our way out of movement class, Chelsea, Mary Beth, Heidi, and I encountered an old, very dirty, small-sheepdog-looking dog running free in the middle of the road. He obviously didn’t belong there, running free, in the middle of the road, so I caught him, and we examined his collar to see if any of the about twenty tags he had on there had his home’s address and phone number – but of course, since this is a Wacky Adventure, none of them did. There was just testament after testament that he’d been rabies-vaccinated and licensed. Which meant he had a home, but where? How to find this home?
So there we all stood there on pretty much the busiest corner of downtown Staunton, holding this dog, who was very not happy to be being held by weirdo strangers, though he was expressing it more or less politely. We didn’t know what to do. If we let him go, he would run into the street again. But where to take him?
Just then, a man walking an even smaller sheepdoggy-looking dog and wearing a 1920s style white boater hat, colonel sanders beard, and rimless round eyeglasses happened by. “Is that your dog?” he asked, genteelly. We assured him that it wasn’t, while the small sheepdoggy-dog sniffed the larger sheepdoggy-dog’s butt.
“I reckon,” he said after a thoughtful pause. “I reckon you’d best take him to the po-lice station.” He explained where the police station is, and we agreed that this seemed like a good idea, and attempted to set off.
But Sheep Doggy Dog was having none of this. Every two steps, he sat down firmly and refused to budge, even though I pulled gently – and less gently – at his collar. The gentleman in the boater observed our distress.
“Perhaps,” he suggested “He feels as if he isn’t bein’ led, properly, by a person.” He considered thoughtfully again. “Has any of you got about you such a thing as a leash? Perhaps a detachable strap or cord?” We hadn’t. “Well, then,” he said, after considering again, “I suppose you’d best take my belt. You can return it to me later, and I’ll just hold my trousers up as best I can in the mean-time.” And that he did, quickly removing his belt and handing it to us with great gravity.
We got directions to the boater-hat-gentleman’s office, right up the street, for the purpose of returning the belt, and then looped the makeshift leash through the dog’s collar. And it seemed as if the gentleman had been exactly right. Formerly intractable Sheep Doggy Dog looked up at me with a look of great intelligence and understanding, and started right off with a friendly-looking trot by my side.
“How fortune! How wonderful,” we exclaimed, setting off briskly for the police station. At which point the dog, looking up again with a look of even greater intelligence and understanding, jerked his head briskly, slipped completely out of his collar, and took off, hell bent for leather, up the street and out of sight.
At which point we became four young women dressed in workout clothes, holding an old, dirty collar attached to a gentleman’s belt, standing in the middle of the busiest street in downtown Staunton.
There was, of course, no way to catch the dog, so the others took the belt back (“What at thing to have to go up to a desk and say,” Heidi remarked. “’I’m returning your belt.’ My goodness!”), and I took the collar to the police station, sans dog. (“Um, I’ll give it to animal control, I guess,” said the police-woman.)
I hope the dog actually knew where he was going and went home, regardless. Maybe he’d just slipped out for a bit of wackiness and was done. One can hope, anyway. Anyhow, I’ve decided I have a decided fondness for white boater hats.
On our way out of movement class, Chelsea, Mary Beth, Heidi, and I encountered an old, very dirty, small-sheepdog-looking dog running free in the middle of the road. He obviously didn’t belong there, running free, in the middle of the road, so I caught him, and we examined his collar to see if any of the about twenty tags he had on there had his home’s address and phone number – but of course, since this is a Wacky Adventure, none of them did. There was just testament after testament that he’d been rabies-vaccinated and licensed. Which meant he had a home, but where? How to find this home?
So there we all stood there on pretty much the busiest corner of downtown Staunton, holding this dog, who was very not happy to be being held by weirdo strangers, though he was expressing it more or less politely. We didn’t know what to do. If we let him go, he would run into the street again. But where to take him?
Just then, a man walking an even smaller sheepdoggy-looking dog and wearing a 1920s style white boater hat, colonel sanders beard, and rimless round eyeglasses happened by. “Is that your dog?” he asked, genteelly. We assured him that it wasn’t, while the small sheepdoggy-dog sniffed the larger sheepdoggy-dog’s butt.
“I reckon,” he said after a thoughtful pause. “I reckon you’d best take him to the po-lice station.” He explained where the police station is, and we agreed that this seemed like a good idea, and attempted to set off.
But Sheep Doggy Dog was having none of this. Every two steps, he sat down firmly and refused to budge, even though I pulled gently – and less gently – at his collar. The gentleman in the boater observed our distress.
“Perhaps,” he suggested “He feels as if he isn’t bein’ led, properly, by a person.” He considered thoughtfully again. “Has any of you got about you such a thing as a leash? Perhaps a detachable strap or cord?” We hadn’t. “Well, then,” he said, after considering again, “I suppose you’d best take my belt. You can return it to me later, and I’ll just hold my trousers up as best I can in the mean-time.” And that he did, quickly removing his belt and handing it to us with great gravity.
We got directions to the boater-hat-gentleman’s office, right up the street, for the purpose of returning the belt, and then looped the makeshift leash through the dog’s collar. And it seemed as if the gentleman had been exactly right. Formerly intractable Sheep Doggy Dog looked up at me with a look of great intelligence and understanding, and started right off with a friendly-looking trot by my side.
“How fortune! How wonderful,” we exclaimed, setting off briskly for the police station. At which point the dog, looking up again with a look of even greater intelligence and understanding, jerked his head briskly, slipped completely out of his collar, and took off, hell bent for leather, up the street and out of sight.
At which point we became four young women dressed in workout clothes, holding an old, dirty collar attached to a gentleman’s belt, standing in the middle of the busiest street in downtown Staunton.
There was, of course, no way to catch the dog, so the others took the belt back (“What at thing to have to go up to a desk and say,” Heidi remarked. “’I’m returning your belt.’ My goodness!”), and I took the collar to the police station, sans dog. (“Um, I’ll give it to animal control, I guess,” said the police-woman.)
I hope the dog actually knew where he was going and went home, regardless. Maybe he’d just slipped out for a bit of wackiness and was done. One can hope, anyway. Anyhow, I’ve decided I have a decided fondness for white boater hats.
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