Dog Wrangler

One additional item to add to the lost and found list -- one German Sheppard.

Last weekend was gorgeous; the sky was ever so blue with no humidity or equatorial temperatures. To rejoice, I grabbed the little Tobyrino for a walk in the hood before scheduling a picnic of delectable proportions with Toombsday.

Note: Toby doesn’t realize he’s a dog. His kennel papers list him as part Jim Henson’s Muppet. So when he’s approached by other dogs, he responds with a “Pardonez-moi,” flops his furry stumps around, and then sneezes to show his frustration.

This particular day, a moody German Sheppard was on the loose. I see the dog regularly because he barks incessantly when we walk by his house. And, of course, Toby looks like a delicious treat on a leash to him. The Nazi approaches Toby; Toby huffs and tries to avoid him. The Nazi proceeds to try to find Toby’s Star of David or his nonexistent testicles. I try my best Cesar Millan stance to dominate the situation with a badassitude, but it’s not helping.

So fuck Cesar’s advice. I revert to my Southern technique, inherited by my Ma. It consists of saying “Git!” while standing akimbo. And you have to add the country accent or else it will not work. So I’m standing in a primarily middle-class Midwestern vanilla neighborhood screaming Git! like a crazed barefoot Southern woman with a cast iron frying pan at this Nazi dog who is trying to eat my muppet. And it works. Tried and true. Unfortunately, it works so well that the Nazi runs the opposite direction and barely misses a speeding car. By this point, I’m attracting all the Lance Armstrong wannabes who practice on the trail in their sponsor endorsed spandex jerseys. And I realize that if the Nazi doesn’t find his concentration camp, then he will get hit by a car, picked up by dog fighters and/or pound and be destroyed and/or euthanized and all will go horribly wrong for this misplaced dog.

It’s a long story thus far so the following bullet points are a summation of the tedious details:

• Turning your dog’s leash into a rigged collar/leash combo for an unmarked dog. This means trying to restrain an adult Sheppard while holding a squirmy 13 pound Muppet on my hip like a baby infant dangling from Britney Spears.
  
• Cutting across yards and inspecting fence lines for other scalawag dogs only to discover that some citizens prefer the version of tying a dog to a chain to scare the hell and tarnation out of any passersby and/or innocent do-gooders trying to return your dog.
  
• After trying four houses, finally locating the Nazi’s Hitler, who rather than expressing appreciation, scolds his dog who runs in tucktailed before the door is promptly slammed. And, really, could I have expected anything more from this Nazi’s owner?

So what’s the moral of this story? Don’t expect people to thank you for general acts of kindness. Act with sincerity rather than ego. And remember your goddamned insect repellant because a nice Saturday afternoon stroll may turn to a hellacious hour of trespassing and dog maul escaping.