Company is coming for dinner. The house is a mess. I need to go to the grocery store and cook, but first, I’ll go too church early, help out there, attend the service and go to lunch. No sweat.
Well, to be honest, there’s sweat as I attempt to start cleaning the bathroom before I go to church. I’m knocking dead leaves off the plants, scraping them off the counter into the waste basket and struggling not to drag the sleeves of my pristine white tunic through the dust. It’s getting hot in here as the temperature begins its climb to 90 plus. A little voice tells me to give it up for now, get in the car and go. I listen and respond.
Ah, blessed solitude as I begin my cruise to church.
I see a man in the middle of the road with a little dog running around him. My first reaction is, “Dude, get your little dog out of the street!” Then I see the car pulled over to the side of the road with its flashers on and realize that this is not his little dog. He’s trying to catch it though. Other cars stop or pull over as I approach. The peripatetic Pomeranian is now on the sidewalk with a group of people attempting to gently coax him to come to them.
He’s having none of it. These good Samaritans are strangers. He begins to run, wide-eyed and tongue lolling, tiny legs a blur as he eats up the ground. The troop of dog herders strolls behind him, trying not to startle him even more. The street is effectively closed but I’m still driving at an excruciatingly slow rate of speed, afraid to pass the red Pom because he might decide to cut back out into the street.
I look ahead to the four-lane highway just ahead. The speed limit is 45 but the real speed is more like 55. The little guy is running bell bent in that direction and it’s beginning to look like he might actually get there before anyone stops him. It’s time for action.
I swing over to the wrong side of the street and gun the engine of my trusty old minivan. I watch out of the passenger-side window until I’m sure I’m far enough ahead of my determined quarry. I screech to the curb, cut the engine, throw open the door, leap out of the car and sprint to the sidewalk. Sprinting is limited because I’m wearing my church sandals, but, I place myself between the running dog and the busy street. I plant my feet, throw my arms into the air and yell, “Aaaarrrgghh!!!” at the top of my lungs.
I expect him to turn and run back in the other direction after encountering my impression of an ogre, but he just falls to the ground and rolls over onto his back. I guess he’s had enough. I slowly approach the panting creature, keeping myself between him and the hazardous highway. Now, I must protect myself. He’s small but his teeth are pointy.
A large man, who had been out for a run, is the first other dog herder to arrive at the scene. He pulls the ear buds out of his ears, looks down, hesitates and says, “Can you pick him up?” I consider the little Pom’s submissive posture and the fact that he hasn’t gone for the hand I stretched out to him and say, “I think so.” The man resumes his run.
I pick up my new little friend. He’s a ball of well-groomed red fur that is now dusty and encrusted with dead leaves and twigs. At this point, he doesn’t seem to be interested in doing anything but tremble in my arms. The tag peeking out of the fur under his chin is a relief. At least he didn’t slip out of his collar and leave his ID behind when he made his daring escape into the wilds of suburbia.
The first man who pulled his car over and tried to catch him had stuck around. He came over and asked if the dog had a tag. When I said, “Yes.”, he offered to take him in his car and trace the owner. I turned the Pom over to the man, dusted off my pristine white tunic and searched for my car keys. They had fallen as I rushed off to be a hero. I found them and continued on my way, grateful that I wouldn’t have to take a dusty little dog to church with me.
It’s going to be a busy Sunday.
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