No good deed...

Saturday night Kat and I were driving home from Christmas at my mom's with a car stuffed to the gills with presents. It was storming and we were taking it slow through a driving rain. I mean, like, torrential rain. We were less than five minutes from home when a little dog darted across the street.

Kat hates dogs. Hates them. In fact I've had to ask her in the past to not be so quick to remind my sister how much she hates her dog. But when she saw this little tan puppy in a red plaid sweater running towards an interstate in the freezing rain she said, "We have to help that dog."

So we got out and ran down the pup. She was pretty willing to come in the car; she was a soaking, shivering, muddy mess. We gave her a bath, washed her sweater, and fed her some turkey lunch meat since it was pretty late and I didn't know of a store open. We placed an ad on Craigslist and tried to look up a no-kill shelter, but they all seemed to be closed for the weekend.

So we had a house guest for the rest of the weekend.

And honestly, she was the sweetest dog ever. She never barked, not once. This was especially nice because having a dog in our place would be a violation of our lease; I'm pretty sure the landlord would've understood the circumstances but I didn't want to chance it. She never chewed on anything, never scratched or peed or pooped on anything in the house. She didn't know commands at all, but she was very attentive and obedient when I gave a little tug on her leash (Kat's purse strap) to walk a particular direction or pushed her butt down to sit. She was, it seems, the perfect dog. We completely fell in love with her and talked, somewhat jokingly, about how we could possibly try to keep her.

Monday came and we took her to the APA of Missouri, where they found she had a microchip in her neck. They put in the call to get the contact information (apparently that shit is well protected) and we took her home to wait for her owner to call in. Finally I got the call from APA with a woman's name and number, so I arranged the reunion.

The lady who picked up the dog (who, it turns out, is named Frankie) said Frankie had gotten out of her yard a couple times but usually came back. She thanked us profusely, seemed pretty nice, and when we suggested tags with a phone number she said she had them but hadn't gotten around to putting them on yet.

The next day, approximately 21 hours later, I got a voicemail from the owner telling me Frankie had escaped again. Naturally, she still has no tags since the owner "didn't get around to it." She asked me to give her a call if I saw the dog "while I was out looking for her."

I was pretty galled by her assumption that I would go out looking for her lost dog, but I guess she's right since I did; mainly because I care about that dog more than she does since she took no steps to prevent it from running away again.

This time I didn't find Frankie. I didn't really know where to begin looking, since I still don't know where she actually lives. I can only keep reminding myself that she more than likely came home last night before it got too cold and didn't go too near the interstate.

But if I find her again, I'm keeping her. That lady's too fucking stupid to have a dog.

1 comment:

tova said...


poor Frankie. hopefully you'll meet again.