“No, no, stay!” I call out, then hold my breath as the dog dashes across the dark street, just in front of the oncoming car. The driver sees him, though, and brakes, and the dog makes it, much to my relief. And now, here he comes. Straight toward me.
Reflexively, I grip my dogs’ leashes tight, try to pull them closer. They’re having none of it, though, Janie and Mixie are straining, pulling, desperate to meet the dog trotting toward them. I tuck my elbows into my sides, pull my fists – with leashes wrapped and wrapped around – close to my body, trying to keep 130 pounds of dog under control.
In seconds, the loose dog is here. All three dogs stop hard and greet one another stiffly, tails in the air. While they sniff around – Janie, Mixie, dog, Mixie, dog, Janie – I listen, hard, hoping to hear someone in the background, huffing up, calling.
The dogs are doing well, relaxing with each other, and I begin to relax, too. Whatever happens next, a fight doesn’t seem to be on the agenda. I transfer Mixie’s leash from my right hand and grasp it with Janie’s leash in my left, wrapping both leashes tightly around my still-flexed fist. Now, right hand freed, I bend down, and coo to the strange dog: “Come here, come here, let me see your tag.”
The dog, what looks like a short-haired yellow lab mix, isn’t afraid of me, but he isn’t helping, either. And my dogs’ heads are in the way, it’s a close-knit chaos of noses and ears. Every time I get close to the dog’s collar and his shiny tag, he moves his head away, teasing.
Finally the dog holds still, all the dogs hold still, and I read the tag, grateful that we happen to be in the circle of streetlight. But, dang it, it’s just the rabies vaccination tag. What good is that? I need this dog’s address, his owner’s phone number, something that will help me get him home, not the confirmation that he’s got his rabies shot. I mean, that’s reassuring, but it’s not the most useful information right now.
So there I stand, pondering. The dog is dragging a long clothesline-type rope behind him. He clearly was tied up outside, and broke away. It’s dark. It’s cold. It’s very, very early. He ran across the street to get to us, nearly getting squished, clearly unfamiliar with traffic and cars. And with the way he’s wagging and panting at my dogs, I’m sure he’ll follow if we leave.
There’s nothing for it. I can’t just leave him here.
“OK, dog, you’re coming with us.” I pull off my glove and stuff it in my pocket, then reach down and grab the thin cord. It’s slick, and I wind it around my hand several times to keep a good grip. “Let’s go,” and I start to move.
The three dogs, excited, surge forward. The cord cuts into my hand, and, “Wait, wait, wait!” Janie and Mixie, veterans of daily walks, stop on command, looking back at me. The yellow dog doesn’t, he yanks and pulls, trying to keep moving. “Aaahh!” Quickly I loosen the cord from around my hand, then take it up and wrap it around my shoulder, under my armpit, over my coat. The dog tugs, the cable tightens, but it holds around my shoulder, and I grip it tightly with my hand to control the dog’s speed and direction.
Haltingly we head toward home, the yellow dog yanking and pulling and veering, cutting into my armpit and hand, my dogs confused and frustrated by their unnaturally short and close leashes. I stop every house or two to loosen the cord and pant with pain and rearrange dogs, who are going left and right and backwards. And at some point, on my fourth or fifth or sixth stop, I think ahead and realize that this is probably the easy part of this particular adventure.
