One thing that those close to me and my wife, Megan, know is we are dog people. We love our two dogs, Elsa and Lucy, and pretty much any dogs we come across. We love puppy kisses and are great at doggy snuggles. One thing we suck at … training. We pretty much expect a newborn puppy to know how to sit, roll over, and play the trumpet by the time they make it into our home.
So, this means we are full of disappointment when there’s dog poop hanging from the rafters and my eighth pair of shoes are half-eaten by the time I make it downstairs to greet them in the morning. Of course, by the time they give me the puppy dog eyes and greet me like they haven’t seen me in years, all is forgiven, and the vicious cycle starts all over again.
Megan, who is also a columnist for the Hamilton County Reporter, recently wrote about this little adventure, and I was challenged to write my side of the story. So, here it is.
This doggone tale takes place last August. It was a Saturday, and we were happily looking forward to a leisurely morning of staying in sweats and slippers. Megan left to go pick up some muffins and bagels for us and the kids. I let the dogs outside to do their normal routine. You know, do their business and then immediately chew up one of our lily plants. I typically leave them outside for a few minutes to play when it’s a nice day, which it was, not taking into consideration that there was a big wind storm the night before (foreshadowing!!).
Megan came home and asked where the dogs were. I told her I left them outside to play. She opened the back door to call them inside. Crickets. I raced upstairs in case the kids had let them in, and they managed their way up. No Elsa. No Lucy.
A frightening thought came to me. What if the windstorm damaged our old wooden fence and the dogs got out? I raced to the backyard again and saw, to my horror, a gaping opening in the far corner of the fence. Megan called her sister to come sit with the kids, while I ran around the neighborhood, screaming the dogs’ names like a madman, still in my sweats and slippers. There was no sign of them anywhere.
Her sister came and Megan and I jumped in our cars and split up to cover more ground. Luckily, we learned from others in the neighborhood that two dogs were spotted romping and running around together, like they were on a crime spree. The bad news was, they were seen crossing Brooks School Road, which can be a very busy street. Knowing how little common sense our dogs have; I was immediately frightened for their lives. The good news was, however, that they seemed to still be together.
We both drove around, asking anyone outside if they had seen the dogs. Many had, so I felt like we were on the trail like they were Carmen Sandiego. Some good Samaritans jumped in their truck and joined in the search after speaking to Megan. In all honesty, they were probably just tired of a deranged woman in a robe screaming at the top of her lungs in their neighborhood.
At this point, I had parked my car and was on foot because I got a hot tip that they were in the area. The Samaritans in the truck stopped me and said the perpetrators were near a neighborhood lake, right next to Brooks School Road. They offered to drive me there. I jumped right in, and they drove near the lake. “THERE THEY ARE!!!”
I did a tuck and roll as I dove out of the speeding truck. Ok, I didn’t do that, but it makes me sound cooler. I ran to the edge of the lake and there they were. The problem was, they were on the opposite side. I yelled for them, thinking they would stay right there while I ran to them. Not the result I was hoping for. They both immediately jumped in the lake and tried to paddle to me. I know these dogs. They’ve never been near water in their lives. This was bad.
I was one second from jumping in myself to go save them, but luckily, they both realized they couldn’t swim and jumped back on land. Now I had to get to them, fast. I started running to the far corner of the lake, and to my surprise, they were running parallel to come to me. The problem was, they are a lot faster than me. I was afraid they would run right around the edge and out into traffic.
My adrenaline kicked in. My slippers, which are too big for my feet, were a large hindrance to my gazelle-style running. I kicked them up high into the air in one smooth motion, just as I saw a police car on Brooks School with its lights on and all traffic stopped. I can only imagine what the people in those cars were thinking. They were watching a middle-aged man in sweats and socks, sprinting at full speed in the grass, along a lake, with a cop now watching me. Commence the “Yakety Sax” music.
I made it to the corner of the lake at the same time as the dogs, who were completely soaked from their little dip. I threw myself on the ground and grabbed them and held on with all my strength. I was somehow able to pull my phone out and call Megan to tell her I had them and I need someone to come help me. Oh yeah, and I also might be arrested.
Turns out, the cop was my police officer brother-in-law who had come to help. Megan arrived and we were able to get them in the car and back home safely. I was sopping wet and completely out of breath, but my doggies were safe. I walked back down the lakeside to retrieve my oversized slippers and went back home to collapse.
In conclusion, I have bad dogs. But I love them. Helpers in the neighborhood are awesome. And it helps to have a police officer in the family.
The moral of the story is … For goodness’ sake, check your fence after a storm!
Tim Rathz can be reached at 40somethinginfishers@gmail.com. Follow on Facebook or Instagram.
Elsa and Lucy right after their bad-dog adventure. (Photo provided)
Okay I laughed out loud reading this