Those of you who know me know that I lose things. All the time. I lose keys, phone lists, checks, socks, keys, driver’s licenses, immunization records, keys…the list goes on and on.
A few nights ago, I found something.
Sarah and I were returning from a midnight dash to the city offices to pay our utility bill when we saw what we thought was a cat standing in the middle of the road. As we got closer, we realized it was actually a dog. I slowed the truck WAY down as we passed the little dog, so as not to run it over. As we continued down the road, I kept looking in my rearview mirror so that I would know when the dog was safely on it’s way and I could speed up again. No dog. I drove a bit further. Still no dog. Where could it be? I looked out of my side window and saw that it was frantically jogging along the side of our truck, about to give itself a heart attack. So I stopped the truck and opened the door to see if the little poochie was wearing a license. Nope. But she did give me the most heartmelting look ever, right before she jumped into our truck. And how could we possibly resist that face?
Isn’t she beautiful? She’s a French bulldog. VERY EXPENSIVE. It costs a lot to get that pretty.
I quickly ascertained that she was too stupid to survive the night on the streets, so I decided to take her home for the night. The next morning, we plastered the neighborhood mailboxes with “found dog” signs and waited anxiously to hear from her owners.
Now, you must understand that I am NOT a dog person. Yes, we have a geriatric kitty, three chickens, a rabbit, and a tarantula, but I absolutely draw the line at dogs. Everyone has their limits. But (insert touchy feely music here) I instantly fell in love with this little girl. She was quiet, polite, calm, wonderful with the children, and not terribly stinky. We temporarily named her Priscilla (me), Drucilla (Sarah), Godzilla (Josh). She and Jakob became constant companions. They shared the beanbag chair, toys, drinks, lots of kisses, and even a hot dog. After we’d had her for a full day with no calls, I secretly began to hope that she really was a stray. The kids were not so secretly hoping the same thing. We’d almost made it through day two when there was a knock on the door. Her owners had found her.
As I was telling them about her adventures with us, I was fighting the urge to throw them out of our house and take Priscilla/Drucilla/Godzilla into a witness protection program. They weren’t even sure when whe’d gone missing, for Pete’s sake! They couldn’t possibly love her as much as we did. But alas, she did belong to them, so we all bid her a fond farewell and then consoled ourselves by watching Wipeout.
We’ll miss her funny little face.
No, this little experience has NOT convinced me that I really am a dog person, but if any of you ever run into a stray French bulldog, send it our way. Until then, I guess I’ll have to give Inky the Lap Warmer some special attention.