Morg
12-25-2007, 05:57 AM
Years ago, when I lived in a real house, I was sitting on the deck by the pool and in walked a dog. I had left the garage door open and this fellow viewed it as an invitation.
He looked like he had walked across the desert for forty years - kind of scruffy. He looked to be a mix: half shepherd, half collie and half unidentifiable breeds. Quality stuff.
After I fed him about seventeen liters of water, he started to scope out the place. He was particularly fascinated by the pool. I think he was wondering whether the mirage would fade after a while.
While he was thus occupied, I closed the garage door. I thought I'd hold him until I could locate an owner.
In his wandering, he approached the west side fence. Now the neighbor on that side had two Bassett Hounds who like to harmonize; she sang bass and he sang basser. The Bassett Hounds started barking at my visitor. It sounded like they wanted to tear him limb from limb if they could just get up from where they were lying.
My visitor ignored them. Not only did he ignore them, it was as though they weren't there at all. I thought maybe he had gone deaf in his trek across the desert.
As a matter of fact, my visitor had not made a sound since dropping in. I wondered if he was a deaf mute. Now that has possibilities in a dog.
I noticed he was picking at his paws, so I offered to remove any offending thorns. He accepted the offer with equanimity - it was like he was humoring me. I found no thorns; I could see nothing wrong with his paws.
I did notice, however, that he had no collar or identifying tags. This posed a dilemma; how to notify the owner that I had his dog. Being naive, I thought the best thing to do was to call animal control. That way, when the owner called the pound, he'd find his dog.
They responded quickly and he went with the officer without protest. I could tell, though, that he didn't really want to leave this beautiful oasis he had found.
The following day, I learned what "animal control" really means. One of my fellow engineers at Honeywell said, "You dumb (she used a rude word for excrement, engineers talk like that), don't you know what the do to dogs they pick up?" The bottom line is they kill them. If no one claims them within seventy-two hours, they kill them. Actually they euphemism them to death.
I felt pretty bad. The dog didn't deserve to die just because he had dropped in for a visit. I called the pound and confirmed that the dog would be "put down" in two more days if no one claimed him.
Well the last day, I decided to go to the pound and see if anyone had claimed the dog. After my explanation, the lady said it might be too late. The seventy-two hours is flexible. She said I could take a look and told me which cell block housed the large breed dogs; she didn't hold out much hope.
Walking through the cell block was like being in Dante's Inferno. As I walked by each cell, the denizen snarled and barked, some even hurled themselves against the bars. It was like each of them blamed me personally for their plight.
I almost missed him. One cell was so quiet, I thought it was empty. He didn't bark or get excited. When I stopped, he came to the front of the cell and looked at me through the bars. It was obvious he recognized me and was glad to see me in his reserved way, but he wasn't going to beg or plead.
The lady at the front desk was surprised when I said I had found him. From there it went fairly quickly. I paid his bail, they ran him through the sheep dip and we were on our way.
Lee and I spent the next several days trying to discover his name. He responded the same to any name we tried; he ignored us. We finally decided to call him Eighty-five because that was his cell number.
Eighty-five posed a problem for one member of the household. We had an antisocial cat, a black Manx, called Sir Isaac Newton III. Sir Isaac used the patio door to exit and enter when he wanted to go out. It had a sliding screen, so he could open it (I never could get him to close it, I think he just didn't see any practical use for a closed door). Eighty-five spent most of his time lying on the patio across the opening of the door. Sir Isaac wouldn't use the door for several days, but he finally decided the dog wasn't really there; he walked right over the dog as though it were a rug.
Eighty-five stayed with us for several months before he decided to continue his quest. Our fence was old cedar planks and he just removed a few planks and left. The first time, some neighborhood kids brought him back and collected a reward. The second time he must have figured out how to remove his collar, we never heard from him again.
Eighty-five, if you're out there I hope you found what you were looking for. We enjoyed having you around.
He looked like he had walked across the desert for forty years - kind of scruffy. He looked to be a mix: half shepherd, half collie and half unidentifiable breeds. Quality stuff.
After I fed him about seventeen liters of water, he started to scope out the place. He was particularly fascinated by the pool. I think he was wondering whether the mirage would fade after a while.
While he was thus occupied, I closed the garage door. I thought I'd hold him until I could locate an owner.
In his wandering, he approached the west side fence. Now the neighbor on that side had two Bassett Hounds who like to harmonize; she sang bass and he sang basser. The Bassett Hounds started barking at my visitor. It sounded like they wanted to tear him limb from limb if they could just get up from where they were lying.
My visitor ignored them. Not only did he ignore them, it was as though they weren't there at all. I thought maybe he had gone deaf in his trek across the desert.
As a matter of fact, my visitor had not made a sound since dropping in. I wondered if he was a deaf mute. Now that has possibilities in a dog.
I noticed he was picking at his paws, so I offered to remove any offending thorns. He accepted the offer with equanimity - it was like he was humoring me. I found no thorns; I could see nothing wrong with his paws.
I did notice, however, that he had no collar or identifying tags. This posed a dilemma; how to notify the owner that I had his dog. Being naive, I thought the best thing to do was to call animal control. That way, when the owner called the pound, he'd find his dog.
They responded quickly and he went with the officer without protest. I could tell, though, that he didn't really want to leave this beautiful oasis he had found.
The following day, I learned what "animal control" really means. One of my fellow engineers at Honeywell said, "You dumb (she used a rude word for excrement, engineers talk like that), don't you know what the do to dogs they pick up?" The bottom line is they kill them. If no one claims them within seventy-two hours, they kill them. Actually they euphemism them to death.
I felt pretty bad. The dog didn't deserve to die just because he had dropped in for a visit. I called the pound and confirmed that the dog would be "put down" in two more days if no one claimed him.
Well the last day, I decided to go to the pound and see if anyone had claimed the dog. After my explanation, the lady said it might be too late. The seventy-two hours is flexible. She said I could take a look and told me which cell block housed the large breed dogs; she didn't hold out much hope.
Walking through the cell block was like being in Dante's Inferno. As I walked by each cell, the denizen snarled and barked, some even hurled themselves against the bars. It was like each of them blamed me personally for their plight.
I almost missed him. One cell was so quiet, I thought it was empty. He didn't bark or get excited. When I stopped, he came to the front of the cell and looked at me through the bars. It was obvious he recognized me and was glad to see me in his reserved way, but he wasn't going to beg or plead.
The lady at the front desk was surprised when I said I had found him. From there it went fairly quickly. I paid his bail, they ran him through the sheep dip and we were on our way.
Lee and I spent the next several days trying to discover his name. He responded the same to any name we tried; he ignored us. We finally decided to call him Eighty-five because that was his cell number.
Eighty-five posed a problem for one member of the household. We had an antisocial cat, a black Manx, called Sir Isaac Newton III. Sir Isaac used the patio door to exit and enter when he wanted to go out. It had a sliding screen, so he could open it (I never could get him to close it, I think he just didn't see any practical use for a closed door). Eighty-five spent most of his time lying on the patio across the opening of the door. Sir Isaac wouldn't use the door for several days, but he finally decided the dog wasn't really there; he walked right over the dog as though it were a rug.
Eighty-five stayed with us for several months before he decided to continue his quest. Our fence was old cedar planks and he just removed a few planks and left. The first time, some neighborhood kids brought him back and collected a reward. The second time he must have figured out how to remove his collar, we never heard from him again.
Eighty-five, if you're out there I hope you found what you were looking for. We enjoyed having you around.