Dog Drama

So I go through the living room on my way to Water Pik my teeth, only with not a Water Pik but with whatever off-brand water cleaner I use, since Midland water eats machines like that for breakfast and I have gone through millions of them. But never mind that; check this:

I look outside and see two dogs in the water bowl, which is, technically, a cat box (scrubbed!  bleached!) that sits out under the tree as an emergency watering station for the birds and squirrels, neighborhood cats (Angel and Humphrey) and, irritatingly, any dog who happens to stroll through.

Never mind that I bought a perfectly good, heavy, solid concrete birdbath at an estate sale last week, for $8, and that it’s sitting on the sidewalk, waiting for us to see if anyone’s going to use it before we find a permanent place for it. Because no one has. Used it. They like the box so much better:  they can hang onto the sides and drop their food in it and then fish it back out. That would be the birds. The squirrels hang upside down on the tree trunk and drink that way. The cats sit and sip delicately, and the dogs? They jump in and stomp around and make a huge, nasty, smelly mess. Wet dog = yum!

Anyway. So there are two dogs out there, and I yell and say, “Hey! What’re y’all doing here? You don’t live here!” Usually this will make dogs cry, “Flee! Flee!” and race (or amble) away. Today? Today they rushed over to me, panting and dripping and drooling and making huge tracheal noises.  An old, fat female pug and a hyper, neutered male Boston Terrier. With collars and multiple tags that I set about trying to read as the dogs cried, “Help us, please, nice lady!” and drooled on my feet and tried to lick my face. Like THAT’S going to happen.

Got the cell phone, called the owner. Who, it turns out, knows me—she says I used to sub for her. She’s not at home (which is about seven blocks away) but is all the way across town. She tells me this several times, pausing each time as if hoping I’ll jump in and offer to take the dogs home. I tell her I have no leashes, no rope, no way to confine them (the male has already tried to pee on the recycling, and there’s no way he’s going on my porch). And as she promises to call her contractor and send him to pick them up, and we hang up, both dogs take off across the street, racing heedlessly as fast as they can. For the pug, this isn’t so very fast. For the Boston, it’s very fast, and very reckless, and very dangerous. I call her back. She’s not nearly as freaked by this as I am.

Long story short:  I end up corralling the dogs out in the street, leading them back here by their collars, holding them with one hand while scrabbling around to find a long piece of thin rope and then winding that around their collars and using it to hold them out under the tree, while they slobber and nip and snork (the old female is on medication and has a crushed trachea) and tangle each other up and make me stink like I did when I worked at Animal Control.

It’s hot, I’m not in my Sun-Repellent Clothing, nor do I have a hat. The dogs, frankly, stink to high heaven. Can we say, “Dog Shampoo”?

I call again, impatiently. She’s found a ride and is on her way, she says. I wait. I wait some more. Just as I’m about to try to open the gate to the side yard (something that requires two hands and lots of lifting), the contractor drives up. He’s grouchy. He takes the dogs and puts them in the truck and yanks the rope from their collars and snarls, “I don’t even like dogs.”

I think, “Buddy, neither do I, but I like them a lot better than I like you.”