Runaway

The other day when I was walking with Jack, we saw a red car driving slowly towards us.  It stopped a few houses ahead, and a white-haired lady got out of the passenger side.  I assumed she was being dropped off, but then she looked at the house across from her and clapped a few times.  If she said anything, I couldn’t hear it. I had time to wonder what on earth she was doing.  As we got level with her, she said “Little black dog wearing a cone.  Have you seen him?”  Ah.  “No, but I’ll keep my eyes open.  If I find him, where should I return him?”  “The house at the end of the cul de sac.  No one’s home, but the door’s open.”  Uh…maybe that’s how he got out?  Or maybe she left it open so he could get back in.  We got beyond the car and I looked down the cul de sac.  There was a little dog in a cone standing in the front yard of the house at the end.  “Ma’am?  Is that him?”  It was.  Probably too embarrassed in the cone to wander far.

Smart little dog.  We had one of those.  And we had one of the other kind.  When Roxy got out, she took off, but if you could get close enough with her leash, she’d come trotting back so we could all go for a walk.  Riley, on the other hand, occasionally got out the back but could always be found waiting patiently to be let in at the front door.

One Comment

  1. Momma Betty

    Murphy was like Riley. When we lived on Lyon Drive, it was Max who would see the opportunity and take off, while Murphy would follow him out of the backyard gate and go sit on the front porch, waiting to be let in. He knew where he belonged.

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