Monday, July 5, 2010

RUNAWAYS! Have a runaway dog story? Tell it here.

One July 4th, my dogs ran away because of fear of fireworks. Maurice and Pearl. The name Maurice came from a Steve Miller song "Enter Maurice" (or something like that) and Pearl was named for Janis Joplin. They took off, the two of them, and decided to wander the neighborhood. I found them about a mile away, wandering in a field.

Maurice was a dog who liked to wander. His last conscious act was to amble to the end of the driveway in an effort to stroll the neighborhood, then-- he died. I swear. I love him even more for final act of rebellion.
But Maurice came back without much trouble when you found him, not like a Scottie I had who enjoyed the game of catch me, the little s.o.b.

Actually, I worked the night shift at that time in July my two dogs ran off. I don't know if my wife called me at the office to tell me the dogs had run, or if I knew before I left for work. Anyway, I just happened to ask a supervisor if he'd seen any dogs on his way to work, and he said he had seen two in a field, and I went and picked them up. They were unrepentant.

A local story on the news today told of a police dog who jumped a fence and ran off because of fireworks. I don't guess that dog was from Oakland or he would've been used to the sound of gunshots.

My daughter and her husband's dog is a wanderer. He jumps-- no climbs their fence and goes to the bar about 50 yards away. The bar has my daughter's number, they call, as if Xena the dog were a husband who drank too much and needed to be picked up. This is a true story.

Xena also climbs trees. Go figure.

I used to drive a cab in San Diego as a college student. One night I picked up a passenger in front of a bar. If I remember, someone helped him into the backseat where he collapsed into a near-unconscious heap. I asked him where he wanted to go. He blubbered that he didn't know his address.
I called my dispatcher.
The call went something like this: "I got this guy in my cab who is drunk and doesn't know where he lives."
"Where'd you pick him up 818?" (my cab number)
"At the Dew-Drop Inn."
"That's Joe," the dispatcher said, and he gave me an address.

It's kinda pitiful when a human is reduced to the equivalent of a dog in the art of communication. I guess the drunk should have been wearing tags. Remember this the next time you decide to party 'til you puke.

My current dog, Lulu was a runaway. Her name was Marian then. She took off, was gone a week, and though the shelter found her owners, they decided they didn't want her anymore. Lulu was five-months old at the time, covered in fleas. When my wife, daughter and I went to the shelter looking to adopt a dog, Lulu almost didn't go home with us.

Lulu was scared to death of humans. She wanted nothing to do with me, and barely allowed my wife and daughter a chance to touch her. I don't know how we decided on her. She was skinny, scared, and had obviously been mistreated.
She's a very pretty dog, about 40 pounds or so. It took her a long time to get over her fear of men. She still is a little shy of them, and newcomers altogether. But she's turned out to be a great dog. Very loyal and eager to please us. Now I am her alpha-male. Oh, well, at least someone thinks of me in that way.

One day, when my kids were younger, we had a runaway goats in our front yard, but that's another story.

You got a runaway dog story? Tell it here. Leave it in the comment box so everyone can read it. I love comments.

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