Well-intentioned, Doggedly

Simple enough, wanting to do the right thing.

Like when walking Max yesterday morning. He stopped at the Leyland near the end of the driveway—as nearly every dog in the neighborhood does—and I spotted Luna somehow outside his backyard. Luna’s the 2-year-old black lab that lives across the street and two doors down.

Crucially, Max had his nose grounded and didn’t see Luna. Crucially, too, Luna was looping his owner’s Cherokee and didn’t see Max. When Luna is free, he often runs at us, and Max does not tolerate body checks and so he must snarl and flash his fangs and threaten to take the interloper by the neck. So I just hurried Max back inside to wait out Luna’s flight to freedom.

Good deed, done. Yay.

Nearly an hour later, after our stroll was completed, I was in the kitchen to brew tea. Wham! That sound would be Max striking the living room window with his front paws. Now usually that means the Woman of Many Dogs is walking by. Sometimes it’s the three little ones, sometimes the two mediums—one that has been Max’s sworn enemy from their first encounter on the street more than 2 years ago. Fur up, shoulders lowered, ears back—both of them. Even half a block away, they flip their must-annihilate switches.

Wham! Hmmm, that’s not right. Wham! Are they just standing in front of the house? Wham! Three quick strikes and I am there. Not the Woman of Many Dogs. A husky is standing out front. Bandit!

My new neighbors—about three months—have two dogs. The husky, Bandit, and the pug, Lucy. Lucy gives Max hell at the fence between the backyards, but Bandit and Max seem to have reached détente without much effort. The kicker is that Bandit is notorious for digging under fences to make an escape.

I grab Max’s leash and out I go. Neither adult is at home and Bandit is drifting toward the street. So here I go to save the day. I call him and, surprise, he comes—not wearing a collar.

And then some tiny, scrappy looking little mutt comes out of my garden. Just who is this little guy, I’m thinking. Meanwhile Bandit is crossing my yard toward the neighbors on the other side. “Bandit!” He returns. “Good dog.” I scratch his head.

Now my neighbors’ have a high school junior at home. I’ll just ring the doorbell and all will be well. Bandit is right there with me. Little brown Unidentified Furry Object is snooting around the yard—all good.

I ring the doorbell. Bandit drifts away but comes right back when I call. Again, I ring the doorbell, Bandit drifts. I knock on the door, Bandit drifts a little further away, and Lucy the Pug barks. Bandit strides over and puts his nose against the door.

Am I waking the teen? What are the odds? I knock on the door with a bit more, uh, resolve.

Lucy barks. Bandit barks. From inside. Wait. Bandit the Husky barks from inside. Bandit. Inside.

Crap. I step back from the door. Bandit, inside. Crap! I stare at Husky 2. What are the odds this far south of the permafrost line.

Truth: When I say I knocked on the door, the word knock is not quite right. Lucy is barking and Bandit is barking and my two new friends are now loping down the street. Well, Husky 2 was loping. Little Bit was scampering to keep up.

I quickstep for home. And who should be coming around the curve, but the Woman of Many Dogs. And I imagine my young neighbor opening his front door.

Slipping inside, I hustle Max to the backyard. Enough pounding for one morning. Enough already with the helping out.

Again, I lean on Dirty Harry for guidance. “Man’s got to know his limitations.”