He was running; no – frantically racing down the sidewalk alongside my car yesterday. Young, and apparently physically fit, he was all white with a black circle around his right eye. (Think of Nipper – the RCA logo dog with cocked head listening to the antique Victrola.) What caught my eye was the ferocity with which he ran – without care or fear of people or approaching cars. He was being chased some distance behind, by a twenty-something, overweight guy clearly incapable of ever catching him.

It was when he dashed head long across the T-junction without regard for speeding cars approaching from both directions that I had to act – make that re-act. Mercifully, he escaped with nothing more serious than an angry blast from two cars that had to swerve and brake to avoid hitting him. I stopped, hit the flashers and got out to try and cajole him to come closer so I could take hold of his collar. When he finally approached I could see he was trembling and seemingly confused as to who I was. Cautiously, he sniffed my outstretched hand and allowed me to put an arm around him before I clutched the collar.

By this time the runner had caught up with us and said, “Thanks. This is the second time today he’s escaped. He belongs to my neighbor.”

“What’s his name,” I asked, meaning the dog.

“I don’t know. The guy who owns him is a bartender. Works all night and sleeps most of the day. Keeps him tied up in the back yard – or tries to.”

I suddenly had great affection for this little animal and felt a kinship. Before I had time or inclination to ask more, the fellow hauled the dog off and placed him in a pickup that had pulled up unnoticed in all of the commotion. They drove off without so much as a ‘fare thee well’.

I have owned dogs all my life and raised three dog loving kids; two of whom now rescue and rehabilitate dogs from shelters, the third owns two rescued dogs who are the love of his family’s life. Hagan, our last dog (actually my wife’s) was a golden retriever – not too smart, but oh so lovable. He lived to be eighteen before his eyesight and legs went bad. Then he lost control of his bowels and kidneys. We could not abide turning him over to a vet to be put down (He hated the vet and resisted every visit.) so I took him deep into the woods for one last hike, his favorite outing ever since he was a pup. I put my arms around him and whispered in his ear that all would soon be well. That shot still rings in my head and his single last tremor remains in my heart. We never got another dog – blaming it on our desire to travel frequently. But I often think: What if . . .

Yesterday’s encounter was a particularly poignant happenstance; largely because I was returning home from an annual checkup by my cardiologist who pronounced me in great shape for someone in his seventies. Whatever that means. “You must have someone who takes good care of you,” he said, as I took my leave.

So my heart goes out to that nameless runaway dog because he too deserves someone to take ‘good care’ of him. I can only hope that he is wanted and well treated, despite what I had witnessed.  I intend to watch for him whenever driving that road in the future. Next time he may just find a more attentive master.

You are welcome.

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