photo by Cheryl Colanon
For being located in an Arizona city second only in size to Phoenix, our house is in a pretty rural area. We’re on a dirt road and all the homes around us are on 1+ acre lots. Lots of people have horses and the empty lots in our neighborhood are filled with creosote, cholla and jackrabbits.
The trailer-to-house ratio isn’t high enough to affect property values, but we have a significant white trash demographic, evidenced by the plethora of Ford F-350 duallys (you know, the trucks with hips), above-ground pools and stray dogs.
Since both O-Ren and Zzini are rescues, hubby and I feel very strongly about taking some action when we see loose dogs. Most times it’s just a matter of grabbing the dog (if they aren’t frothing at the mouth or appearing otherwise Cujo-esque), looking for their collar and calling the number on their tags.
anyone got a snausage?
Occasionally it requires actually keeping the dog in the kennel at our house until we either locate the owners or (after posting flyers, checking for microchips and calling animal control to make sure no one’s reported the dog lost), find suitable new owners. We’ve done that twice, much to the delight of both the new owners and the formerly lost dog (and to the abject relief of our dogs, who are always worried that we’re going to bring home yet ANOTHER beast to monopolize our affections and the dog food).
looks just like me. really
So when I see loose dogs, regardless of where I’m going, my first instinct is to pull over and do what I can to get them back home or to safety. A busy road that intersects the neighborhood and a goodly-sized pack of coyotes who live in the canal make the area akin to Raccoon City for strays.
You may call me crazy or you may call me Alice, the rescuer of all things furry.
The one in front was a fat, golden retriever-looking guy wearing a thick black harness. He was making pretty good time considering his bulk – belly swaying back and forth in rhythm with the flopping of his big paws. The one chasing him was a brown, skinny-looking thing that I couldn’t quite identify, until they got closer. The fattie in the front was galumphing along in that carefree way dogs do when they are out for an adventure, so it appeared as if they were traveling companions. When they saw my car, they altered course slightly to head directly to me and I figured I wouldn’t have a hard time corraling them if they were that eager to see a human. I slowed down and got ready to get out and make friends.
I finally focused on the one bringing up the rear and instantly realized I wouldn’t be rescuing either of them today. The “dog” chasing the retriever – was a goat. Intently focused on the fat dog’s wagging tail, he nimbly negotiated the low berm at the side of the road and hopped briskly after his traveling companion.
I had a brief, catastrophic vision of me trying to hoist a goat into the back of the Matrix; and, if I was successful, the havoc his pointy hooves would wreak on my cloth seats. Not to mention the Eau de Goat permeating the fabric. I’m not sure USAA would cover that. . .
Cell phone in hand, I went through my contacts looking for animal control and watched this Warner Brothers cartoon-come-to-life clumsily run past my car, through someone’s front yard and off into the patch of desert next to the canal. I lost them in the thick scrub and rabbit brush and just put my phone away.
I see some crazy shit out in Extreme East Mesa-land, mostly involving drunks, tweekers or trailer parks. Up to this point, however, I think this takes the cake. I felt a little bad that I hadn’t done anything to get these two intrepid desperados back home. But logistically, I think that securing Butch Cassidy and the Sundance KID (get it?!? I’m so punny!) would have been a frustrating experience for both me and the goat.
The goat didn’t have a collar on anyway.
