Come On, Doggone Dog!

A friend visited this evening with his two water-loving dogs, both eager for a swim in the lake.  When our son returned to the pier in the Hobie (catamaran), I volunteered to dog-sit the dogs at the pier so our friend could go sailing.

The dogs and I got along famously.  I threw a fat stick and they eagerly swam for it, wrestling for ownership on the way to shore.  It was a good activity, and occupied them for quite a while.

Then the tables turned and they decided to ditch our game. It seemed almost as if a gun went off and an imaginary starting gate opened.  They scrambled out onto the lawn and took off along the shore like marathon runners.   The race evidently was ON.

I foolishly ran after them – 64-year-old woman in a swimsuit hobbling on bare feet because of an orthopedic problem.  What a sight!  Observers must have thought it laughable, something from a Charlie Chaplin movie.  I thought it highly distressing. 

Of course the dogs ignored my calls. Who was I, anyway?  A stupid sitter.  What kind of authority did I have?  None.  Happy trails were calling them now, and my voice meant nothing.

They kept running.  They didn’t look back. 

I kept running.  I watched them them gain ground.

About 10 houses later, one became distracted.  I snuck up from behind, stealthy-like, and nabbed him.  (Side note: We’re talking about a Great Dane-Doberman mix here.   A Very Large Dog.  An Immense Dog.)  Having commenced the frantic chase in a hurry (an understatement), I didn’t have a leash.  So I grabbed his collar and lugged The Mammoth back home knowing full well that he could easily dislocate my arm if he wanted.   The whole thing seemed either hilarious (most likely choice) or pathetic (not a bad option, either).  Take your pick.

After securing The Giant Dog to our big oak tree with a rope (I wondered if it was strong enough to hold him?), I reinstated the hunt for the other one, this time with a leash in hand. An awful, stomach-churning sense of responsibility sickened me. She was an older hunting-type dog, beloved by her owners, and I had visions of her taking off into the wild swamp and getting lost.  Evening was practically upon us.  If night fell and she wasn’t back, what might happen?

I haven’t run for a long time, but I did just that – a sadly pathetic limping walk-jog for a half mile to the dead end, heart pounding, adrenaline racing.  No dog.  Surely she was gone, and I would have to be the one to break the bad news to her owner.

But no.  That's not the end of the story.  Rather, I was mocked!  For when I finally returned to the house, there she was, wagging her tail, enjoying the last laugh.  That doggone dog!