“Hey, Ed. Rusty’s in my yard.”
The call has come countless times, never opportune. I was just finishing my first cup of coffee this morning when my neighbor called to let me know that Rusty was on the lam. Again. I asked her if she had seen Abbey, Zoe’s puppy, but she had not.
Great! I thought as I threw on a pair of shoes, grabbed the leash and made my way across the street. I met my newest neighbor first. Newest, I say because I had not met them yet. They could have lived there for years for all I know. I just hadn’t had the opportunity to meet them. Abbey provided.
She was busying herself tugging at the leash my neighbor had put on her anxious to continue her great escape. I thanked them immensely and set to the next house to retrieve Rusty.
Come to think of it, I’m not sure I introduced myself. I introduced the dogs. Everyone in our little village knows my dog. In fact, they knew Rusty before they knew me. They’re not a nuisance just big and hard to miss. Two years ago the county replaced the bridge that spans the river at the end of our property. Every morning when the workers arrived, Rusty made his way to the end of the yard to supervise the progress.
One day, when he shows up missing, I make my way down to the job site to see if any of the workers had seen my dog. The foreman asks, “Oh, is that your dog?” then he turns to the crew and yells, “Hey, any you guys seen Rusty?”
The freaking bridge crew knew my dog before they knew me.
Anyway, I get Rusty and Abbey back into the yard and set about to find where they were getting out. It wasn’t difficult. They both were soaking wet and covered in mud. They’ve been walking through the creek at the back corner of our property.
I’ve had fencing materials for about a month but it’s been either too cold or the water has been too high for me to rig a barricade. It’s still chilly and the water, though not as high as it can get is still high. Apparently, not high enough.
Did I mention it was raining?
So yeah, I spent the better part of my morning perfecting the art of canine containment. I was soaking wet, full of mud and cold. My feet were soaked, my hands sore and my tools are covered in mud. I was tired, may back was sore and the 1/2 cup of coffee I had been able to drink before starting this little project had worn off hours ago.
My three little helpers, Zia, Zella and Zander were just as, if not more, wet, cold and muddy as I though not nearly as disgruntled. They had spent the time climbing on boulders, playing in the mud and throwing sticks and rocks into the creek. Oh, and dropping my tools into the mud.
As I put the finishing touches on my last patch-worked piece of fencing that now spans the creek Zia, panting and giddy with the excitement of a kid that has just spent the better part of her morning playing in the mud, every kids’ absolute favorite thing to do in the whole wide world, asked, “Dad, can we do this again?”
I looked at my watch, it was not even 11:00 am. “Good Lord, Zia. I certainly hope not!”
