It's a dark night in a suburb without streetlights. But on the first floor of a split-level home in the heart of Ravens Way, one man is trying to figure out why he is the way he is, and committing what he finds to paper: Guy Verbose, introverted private eye.
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The Big Escape
It was Friday night, 11:30 pm (maybe later). I was lying on the couch in the dark, watching a British crime drama, and trying to forget about the work week that had just ended when I heard voices outside in the street. I also heard a dog barking, so I assumed neighbor Tammy was out there jawing with some of my other neighbors. Tammy’s dog is aggressive toward other canines, so she tends to walk the beast at odd hours. That said, 11:30 pm isn’t exactly her time to shine. (She’s more of a lark than an owl.)
Nevertheless, I tried to ignore the ruckus outside and reinsert myself in whatever crime had taken place in the quaint English village on my TV. Who among the cast committed this unspeakable act? The universe wasn’t going to let me find out, for just as I was getting sucked back into the story, the sound of barking brought me back to reality. It wasn’t like Tammy to let her dog bark like this, especially so late at night, so after listening to (and getting increasingly annoyed by) the noise for five to 10 minutes, I got up from the couch and schlepped over to the window to have a look-see.
I assumed I’d find a gaggle of neighbors having some sort of late-night pow-wow in the street. To my surprise, no one was out there. I couldn’t even see a dog, which was strange because the barking sounded close by. Keen to investigate further, I slid on a pair of shoes and went outside. I was halfway across the lawn before I noticed a dog tied to the fire hydrant in the far corner of our front yard near the curb. Our neighborhood lacks streetlights, so the dark-colored dog blended in with the darkness. The dog was clearly agitated, so I slowed my pace and moved in for a closer look. I know most of the dogs in the neighborhood, so I wanted to see if I was familiar with this animal. At the same time, I didn’t want to get too close in case the dog got loose.
When close to enough to make out some of the dog’s characteristics, I discovered the dog was some kind of pit bull (or pit bull-adjacent breed) and that it was secured to the hydrant by a dog leash. The loop at the end of the leash was placed around the top of the hydrant, allowing the dog to travel around the fire plug without getting tangled.
To see if I could calm the dog down, I spoke to it in a pleasant voice.
“Hey buddy,” I said with a tinge of anxiety.
The barking continued.
“Hey, hey .... I’m a good guy. I want to help.”
More barking.
“Does Cujo want to bite my face off?”
The dog and I weren’t connecting. Unsure of what to do next, I went back to the house, flicked off my shoes, and stared out the window into the blackness. Now that I knew where the dog was, I could make out its shape against the night. If the dog had been nice, I would have brought it into the house. The last time I encountered a stray dog, a big fluffy beast with a makeshift tag that read “Pooh-bear,” I ended up spending the night with it in the basement only to have it escape our yard and run away the next morning. This time, I decided to bring in the experts and called animal control.
I found a phone number online for the country’s animal services department and punched in the digits. After getting transferred a few times, I was put in touch with an animal control officer in a town about 20 minutes away. The gentleman took my address and promised to send someone out as soon as possible. I thanked the man for his help, put down the phone, and settled in for a long night of barking. I wasn’t excited about this, so I thought I’d make another attempt to calm the dog. Figuring it couldn’t bark if it was eating something, I grabbed some dog treats and headed out toward the hydrant.
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The dog kept barking. (I guess it didn’t know the word “treat.”)
Still reluctant to get close, I tossed a treat toward the dog, hoping it landed somewhere within the dog’s reach. The dog looked at the treat when it hit the ground but didn’t go for it. It just turned it's attention back to me and kept barking.
I continued talking to the dog in a soothing voice, telling it that “everything was okay” and that “someone was on his or her way to get you,” but it didn’t make a dent in the barking. Every now and then I tossed another treat in the dog’s direction, but that didn’t do anything to stop the barking, either. I wasn’t getting anywhere, so I gave up and went back into the house to reclaim my spot on the couch. The show I was watching ended and another episode had already taken its place. I tried to tune into it, but my thoughts kept returning to the dog. So, I went back to the window to see what the beast was doing. On the way over, I realized the barking had stopped.
When I made it to the window, I could see the dog was still there and that it was moving in a strange manner, as if it was struggling with something. I pressed my face against the window to get a better look and that was when I saw the dog break free from the leash and run off down the street.
“Welp, there goes that problem,” I said aloud to no one.
Figuring I ought to let the animal control know its services were no longer required, I got a hold of the gentleman I had spoken to earlier and told him what happened.
“The dog freed itself somehow and just ran off down the street,” I said.
I felt bad for the officer and even worse for the dog, which was now at risk of getting hit by a car. I tried to be a good citizen (and a good human) and do the right thing, but the fates had other ideas.
The animal control officer took it in stride. He was getting paid either way.
The next morning, I went outside to look at the leash, part of which was still attached to the hydrant. The dog had chewed through it. It also chewed up the treats I threw to it ... or something did, because they were nowhere to be found, just like the dog that disrupted my Friday night.
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