It was a version of the all too familiar phrase “I’ll do it” spoken by those realizing everyone else in the room is avoiding responsibility.
I was standing in the back of a dog groomer’s business with a man who held a mess of black fur proven to be a canine and a pregnant woman with her hands up in the air, backing away as if the dog had a contagious disease.
The man turned to the pregnant woman first to confirm her gesture of relinquishment, and then turned to me and asked with a tone that offered an out if I so needed it: “Are you sure?” This wasn’t his responsibility either, but he didn’t want to shirk it either.
“Yes. I’ll take him to the shelter tomorrow,” I responded definitively.
The man handed over what looked like the business end of a dirty dustmop. The pregnant woman walked away without even a thank-you.
The last half an hour had entailed a dozen people chasing the scruffy dog (aka the dustmop) across five lanes of traffic, trapping him beneath a car, and then extracting him from his hiding space while getting bitten. I wasn’t the brave one who sacrificed her hand to grab the dog hiding in the wheelwell of the car, but I was left holding the bag (or in this case, the dog). I had no one to blame but myself.
This is what happens when you answer your front door.
So thus, the tale begins on a sunny Sunday afternoon in May, 2023…
“Do you recognize that dog?” she asked, pointing to the scraggly black dog pissing on the lamppost in front of my neighbor’s house.
I hung me head with a sigh. “No, but let me grab some treats and I’ll help you.”
I closed the door, went to the kitchen to grab some liver treats, and by the time I got back outside, the dog was almost to the intersection with the woman running far behind. I’m not an athlete. Me running would not be helpful. So I got into my truck and headed south.
I pulled a u-y about two thirds of the way down the block as the ragamuffin darted into the northbound lanes. I called out to him, “Hey!” as I was making the turn, and surprisingly, he looked at me in response. “Get out of the road before you get yourself killed!” I expounded in a stern, New Yorker mother kind of way. My street has two northbound lanes, two southbound lanes, a middle turning lane, and enough room to parellel park on both sides. It was a very wide river of pavement. The dog considered my suggestion and assessment for a moment, and as I righted my vessel northbound, he scuttled back to the southbound lanes and onto the sidewalk.
A woman parked in front of me and was faster getting out of the car than I was, so I tossed her a bag of treats out my window as she headed toward the dog and the now the growing crowd of humans.
After a stream of cars passed by, I crossed the five lanes where I found the dog was panicked and plotting his next move from behind a decorative fence. A dozen people had amassed and surrounded the half-fenced yard, waiting for the dog’s next move. He could easily make it out the walkway that had no gate or the wide open driveway, but no one could tell which way he would try.
He made a quick break for it through the driveway, and a fast-thinking driver in the southbound lane who had spotted the activity from up the road, not only stopped but crossed over the white lane diagonally to block all southbound traffic.
The dog darted back toward the crowd and under the nearest car. Next to me, I heard, “That’s my car.” It was the woman who had rung my doorbell, looking forlornly at the vehicle.
Of course it was.
All that running around, and the dog ended up right where she started.
With people naturally taking up positions around the vehicle in some sort of unspoken strategy, a pregnant woman with a leash and collar made her way to the crowd, but was standing back a little ways.
“He’s mine,” she said rather quietly.
“What’s his name?” I asked from the rear of the car where I was holding sentinel.
I had to ask a second time and then someone else closer to her repeated the question to which she replied, “Blackie.”
A young man at the front of the vehicle took the leash and collar from her and from down below, I could hear the man calling the dog’s name. The dog, terrified out of his wits, backed up to the wheel and snarled in every direction.
The dog was smart—no one could simultaneously see him and reach him. Someone asked if they had any object to try to push him out from his spot. An umbrella proved useless. Then like a back alley abortion, someone attempted to use a coat hanger, which also proved fruitless.
Drivers were starting to lose patience with the civilian-blocked lane, and we couldn’t let the dog continue at this high of a stress level. Finally, the wife of the man who had blocked the lane who was lying on the sidewalk closest to the dog and the wheel, announced, “I’m close to his back end. I’m just going to grab him.”
All of us were grateful for her courage. Despite snapping teeth, she stuck her hand behind the wheel, and we heard the dog shriek as, in one fluid motion, she grabbed his backend and dragged him out from under the car and up onto the curb. The man with the leash and collar slipped the collar on and took him from her. It couldn’t have been more than three seconds.
For reasons I cannot explain, rather than disperse with the rest of the crowd, I went toward the man with the dog.
He tried to hand the dog back to the pregnant woman, and she retreated a few steps. “Oh, I don’t want him.”
I’m not sure if either of us even uttered, “What?” or if it was just our expressions that asked.
He and I herded the woman away from the street and the dispersing crowd of individuals who had just invested their time and safety into the rescue of this dog.
“I was just going to get him groomed and then take him to the shelter.”
Again, “What?” may or may not have come out verbally from either of us.
Prior to her arrival when discussions of getting animal control to come help were tossed around, we learned that the shelter was closed for the day.
The woman continued, “Clearly he doesn’t want to be with me. He jumped out of the car and ran for it. My friend dropped them off last night and then ghosted me. I don’t want him.”
The guy, still holding the dog who was trying to calm himself, and I started walking toward the groomers at the other end of the parking lot.
We walked inside and the young man asked the two groomers, “Do you know this dog?”
One said, “Yeah. That’s Blackie. His sister Goldie is right here.”
A beige version of the unkempt dustmop was behind a small gate on the opposite side of the room.
Blackie and Goldie… Those are definitely not their names… First off, the dog I was looking at wasn’t even black. He was grey, brown, and black… a brindle coat.
We learned that the woman had booked the appointment for the two dogs that morning.
The pregnant woman arrived at the back door and she confirmed that she wanted nothing to do with “Blackie”. The dog definitely needed a groom, but why groom him just to drop him at the shelter? This dog was heavily matted and his coat was overgrown in every direction. A dog in his condition was going cost over $100.
Looking at the pup in the man’s arms, I knew he was not going to tolerate being groomed. He was probably in pain, and his cortisol and adrenaline were running way too high. That’s when my mouth translated those thoughts into the words that fell out of my mouth: “Just give him to me.”
After the woman left, I walked out to the parking lot where the man’s significant other was sitting in the driver’s seat of a car. I asked why he got so involved. “My dog got out and was killed by car. I always stop to help.”
I thanked him again, and with “Blackie” in my arms, walked back to the main road. I noticed that the collar was brand new (the plastic bit was still on it), and altogether too large. Of course he slipped the collar.
Strangely, I was not worried. I just did what I had to do. I’d take him home for the night, and then the next day drop him at the shelter where hopefully his proper owner would be found or he’d get a new home. Burbank Animal Shelter is not officially “no kill”, but it’s pretty rare for them to get to that point. That was the plan anyway…
I showed Blackie the crosswalk, explaining this is how one properly crosses the street, got into my truck, and drove the half a block home.
Tucker is pretty good with all dogs, but I had no idea about this one. I left Blackie in the car while I wrangled Tucker, who was anxious to hear what adventure I had been on, into his crate.
In a twist of fate, I was working on a writing assignment testing dog beds, and my 42 inch crate was already set up in the living room with a K9 Ballistics crate pad in it. I brought the little dustmop in and put him inside the crate. Tucker was sniffling and snuffling through the bars of his own crate wagging his tail, so I let him out so the two could meet with the safety of the bars between them.
Tucker was beside himself with joy at having a new friend.