Recently I watched a large truck swerve and then screech to a shuddering halt to avoid flattening a little white dog. After having seen that same dog run into the road on numerous occasions, I finally lost my temper.
I work full-time in a small office just around the corner from an auto-body shop that had a Maltese mix that seemed to run wild.
In the past six months, I have seen him nearly get run over by no less than five cars, one of them being my own. Every time I passed the garage on my way to get coffee with my friend Cindy I tried to convince the owners that leashing their dog was the most responsible thing they could do.
“But he barks when I leash him,” said the owner and, after many failed attempts at reasoning with him, I resigned myself to the fact that some people just don’t listen or care.
After witnessing the accident-that-could-have-been, I lost any semblance of patience I may have had and stormed over to confront the dog’s owner. I was not surprised when he shrugged and repeated, “If I leash him, he barks.”
“Would you rather have him barking or dead?”
He considered me briefly before asking, “Do you know anyone who would want him?” I was shocked. You would have to shoot me to separate me from my dogs, and I found this person’s nonchalance regarding the fate of his pet chilling.
“Let me think about it,” I said and continued the walk to the coffee shop with Cindy.
We discussed it briefly before we both reached the conclusion that the little white dog’s days were numbered if he wasn’t removed from the situation, so when we passed the garage on the return to our office, I told the owner that I would take him.
The man didn’t even pause; he walked into the office, picked up the dog and thrust him at me without a word. Cindy and I stood there frozen for a moment before realizing that the owner had no intention of saying any kind of goodbye to his pet … and then we walked away, the little white dog struggling in my arms.
Although I had seen the little white dog on our jaunts to the coffee shop, it wasn’t until he was shut in our office that I realized just how neglected he had been; his fur was matted to the point of dreadlocks, he was riddled with fleas and he stank to high heaven.
Despite the obvious carelessness of his former owners, he was sweet and affectionate toward everyone who came near him. Needless to say, I got him shaved down as soon as I could.
I named him Gulliver (as his travels have obviously taken him to some interesting places), and he will be staying with me and my pack of canine misfits until I can find him a permanent home with a family who will adore him. As sweet as he is, I doubt that it will be very difficult.
I hadn’t planned on bringing home any more dogs after Darcy passed away, but you know what they say: once a sucker, always a sucker.
