The men I had hired to cut down the dead pine tree in my back yard went right to the task. After snagging my terrier, Gus, I went back to blowing leaves in the front yard so I wouldn’t have to see or hear any disasters that I felt were imminent with this crew.
After few minutes, I looked over the roof of my house and saw the top of the dead tree disappear, and the healthy tree next to it shake violently. I couldn’t hear anything, like what I was sure must have been screams of fear, or worse, cries of agony, because my leaf blower was still running. But, being the owner of record of the property, I thought I needed to at least feign responsibility, so I turned the blower off and went to see how it had gone.
As soon as I came to the side of the house, where I had a view of the back yard, I saw a little terrier running around. “I know I put Gus inside,” I thought. Then I saw the other dog and the pieces all fell into place. The first dog wasn’t Gus at all, but my neighbor’s Westie. The felled tree had taken out a section of my neighbor’s fence, and her dogs were free. I had little time to see the toll of damages, as the escaping canines were priority one. But I subconsciously registered the damages, which besides the fence was my firewood holder, now smashed beyond repair.
The dogs, long held in captivity, were speeding to the wide-open plains. My cries of “Come here, boy, come here!” ignored. I even tried the old faithful, “TREAT,” which always works on Gus. But there was no reaching their passion for escape.
They got to the back end of my driveway with me panting in pursuit. One of the tree guys was between them and the street; my last hope. He looked young and quick, and I yelled, “Don’t let them by.” It wasn’t close as they zipped around him. “Oh no,” I thought, knowing they would be flattened by cars on the waiting thoroughfare just a few houses away. I pictured me knocking on my neighbor’s door with her dead pets under each arm.
As luck would have it, the Westie was older and either growing tired or was wise enough to stop before the street. I got close and he rolled on his back and I scooped him up and sprinted toward my neighbor’s front door, all the while keeping my eye on his cell mate, the younger and wiser and faster hound who looked as though he’d discovered the Milk Bone mother load.
I rang the doorbell, and after what seemed like forever, a kid who looked about 17 answered. I shoved the Westie at him and he said, “Oh wow, how did he get out? I gave the Cliffs notes version while keeping my eye on the other dog, now across the street and challenging the territory of a large Chocolate Lab.
“Will the other one come to you?” I asked, thinking surely he would see what was going on and run to his other dog’s rescue.
“No,” was all I got.
“Well what’s her name?”
“Lucy,” Sleepyhead answered, as I ran toward her, screaming “Lucy, come on girl.”
Lucy did come to me, thankfully. Later, I went to tell the owner of the home I would repair her fence and that I was sorry her dogs almost ran off.
“Oh, I kind of wish they had,” she laughed.
Now you tell me.