I recently made mention in an e-mail of our deceased puppy named Bailey. I was quoting my very prolific husband who always feels the need to sum up Bailey's personality by saying "dogs like that don't come along every day, she was a good dog!" Usually I take the time to point out that for the first two years of her life I seriously wondered if she was insane. I used to call her jaws on a stick, thinking of those wind up dinosaur heads on a stick that you could buy for 50 cents a couple of decades ago. Which, in turn, always makes me think of those creepy- claw hand- back scratchers you could also buy but never would because they made you think of your Grandpa, not the nice one, but the mean one who yelled at you and your brother so badly when you busted in on him in the bathroom that one time. Everybody has one of those Grandpa's don't they?
Yep, Mark always says that about Bailey, (our second dog) who loved him faithfully but came to me when she was hurt or not feeling well. That dog knew who was Daddy, and she knew who was Mommy. The last time he said that I thought- really? They don't come along that often? Well, they could! Don't you remember that stint I went through in my early thirties where I started picking up stray dogs I would see on my way home from work or your parents house? Or my parents house? Or the library? Don't you remember you telling me I had better not bring home one more dog..... and you probably thought for once in our marriage I was "listening to something you said?" But really it was because I was fairly certain that I had some sort of mental problem, especially after I picked up that last dog- the third one that "looked just like Casey", and it could have been Casey(our first dog), somehow getting out of her pen and making the 25 mile trek from our house to Grandma's house (because dogs can do that, look at Lassie and Rin Tin Tin and especially Benjie) because after all, this dog was on the road to Grandma's house, and after I forced it into my car, realizing it was not my dog but certainly should not be out and about on this private drive and it must need to be rescued by me.
So, I took it home. It was Friday. I dutifully called animal control. No answer. The dog stayed with us all weekend. It was fed and loved. On Monday, starting to get a little afraid I might have to keep the dog, and feed the dog and take the dog to the vet, I dutifully called Animal Control again. Yes, a dog fitting that description had been reported missing and the owners were very worried. "Oh, they'll be so happy!" I thought. They will be so grateful I found their dog and saved it from a sure death by car. I mean, even if Animal Control had picked up their lost dog they would still issue them a ticket for not controlling their dog, right? I took down the number and called right away to quiet their worries. A girl of about 16 answered. I was right. She was worried, and so very relieved to know her precious pet was safe and well cared for over the weekend. I told her I had to come to Fremont anyways and would be happy to drop the dog off to her home. What was her address?
That was when I realized I might just be suffering from some sort of malady. Turns out the dog was on his street. The street he lived on. The street his owners lived on. Turns out I hadn't really "saved" him. Turns out a better description would be that I dog-napped him. I wondered if anyone had seen me forcing him in my car. I told the young girl I would be dropping him off shortly and perhaps she should get a tag for his collar with his address on it. She said she would.
That put an end to that period of dog rescuing. I suppose I could include the story of how it started years before and how the very first instance of "rescuing" taught me that it was a bad idea- the time I thought I saw the boxer that belonged to the guy I so wanted to date, walking along side the highway on a dark winter night, so I stopped and forced the beautiful brindle boxer into my car and drove it straight back to it's home, only to find out that it couldn't be his dog because his dog was right there on the chain and lo, and behold, it couldn't be the same dog anyways, cuz the dog I picked up was- surprise! a boy! Not being very old and not really sure I wanted to get between the two, I left. Later, when I found out the female was preggers I resisted the urge to say I might know who the daddy was and not to worry because I think he was purebred so the pups were purebred.
That's how you know you might have a certain mental defect. When you keep doing something that you know is probably going to badly but just can't help yourself....there's something not right there....