Good Old Days

I was jogging my usual route through the ‘hood this morning when a big black lab/retriever mix ran up and got in step with me. It happens pretty often that lost or stray dogs join me on my runs, and—as much as I love dogs--it’s always a drag because people driving by think the leashless dogs belong to me and I get a lot of finger-wagging and head-shaking my way. Not to mention, I have to worry about the dogs getting hit by said wagger-shakers.

At first I thought this was Midnight, who lives around the circle but, checking the tags, I discovered it was Jack, who lives clear on the other side of the subdivision and is owned by a fellow jogger who was once a victim of Stella’s ankle biting. I felt I owed it to him, then, to get his dog back safely—and to let him know that I know that he is also guilty of letting his dog run free to menace the general community.

When he answered my knock at the door, he looked relieved to see his pet and began thanking me profusely. He said he’d let Jack out of the fence for a minute—and, well, before he knew it, the dog was gone. He didn’t understand it. And then he said the words that completed the catalog of “Old Times” comments I’ve been collecting for years. Now, I’ve officially heard everything.

Neighbor (in all seriousness): I don’t get it. When I was a kid, dogs would just run around in the yard—or maybe down to the end of the street. But dogs these days, they just take off and don’t come back.