When Rocky Did A Little Wee On The Carpet

And there we were, walking along The Boulevarde, talking about how crap the Strathfield outlet (or is branch better?) of a very influential supermarket chain which starts with a W, quite happy in many ways, happy and comfortable, and relaxed and having a gentle whinge and understanding each other and being sympathetic or mildly outraged, depending on whose turn it was. We had already popped into an Indian grocery shop, bought a pack of cheesy ball snacks, eaten a few, remarked that they seemed to lack a little zing in the flavour department, and realised that their Best Before date was in July. Ah, we said, explains the lack of zing.

And we walked on, talking about the possibility of a stormy meteorological event – we had seen rain falling, in the distance, from the train, and it was very cool indeed, and all around were ominous clouds of varying shades of grey – and not for the first time we saw far away lightning, and getting home before the deluge seemed a priority.

But we were happy. There was no rush. It’s not a problem to arrive where you are drenched: you change your clothes and put the heater on, or have a shower and dry yourself off – there are so many strategies.

And then we saw it. As it turned out, it was a him, but we didn’t know that yet. An exceptionally cute little dog with fluffy hair in a range of red shades. He was lost. Since Lily and Domino made a run for it at our old place and had a frolic at the park and became confused on the way back,[1] and were rescued by a woman who lived near the park who realised they were lost, while Laetitia and me and Laetitia’s friends were worried sick, we’ve been very much focused on rescuing lost dogs when we encounter them. (We were that way inclined before, don’t get me wrong – people in general should be; especially animal, and particularly dog, lovers – but sometimes it’s tempting to assume without evidence that a discombobulated little pooch will be OK, and walk on.)

But this one didn’t seem to want rescuing. The slightly stale Indian cheese balls weren’t a big attraction to him. The inevitable quite large storm was looming as a bad stimulus for a stressed pet, and it was clear that rumbling was likely to get louder and more frequent before the rain came. And this poor little bloke seemed likely to run away if we chased, and possibly to run onto the road. It seemed too hard: he wouldn’t come too close; seemed interested in who we were and what we were doing, but little more than curious. We decided we had to act. Tried a few approaches to entice him closer – and then, as I held all the shopping bags and other bags, Laetitia pounced and cornered him, and even briefly pushed him onto his carefully brushed little back in some long grass, and although he made to bite, it was a defensive thing, a warning, and when Laetitia had control, holding him in front of her, he calmed himself to accept the situation and behave, and quietly became more and more anxious on our walk home. Anxious in a settled, I’m going with you, sort of way.

I must confess I was scared. Scared about getting it wrong. I called the number on his collar tag and left a message with his Mummy. (I couldn’t believe that his Mummy had her phone turned off, but then people do that all the time for a multitude of reasons. However I still couldn’t believe it: it just made everything worse.)

And we got him home and sort of snuck him inside before the dogs outside, or the cat in the bedroom, knew what was going on. Although the dogs soon knew. They smelled and heard him and wanted to come in as well. They didn’t behave very well when they met our new little friend – his name is Rocky – but it was nothing too bad, and I can’t blame some less than charitable behaviour when something like this is sprung on you, in your house, on your property – and for a dog that’s a bloody huge imposition.

But little moments of potential canine anger subsided somewhat with the introduction of the cat – whom they all decided they didn’t like, and Rocky in particular sought to see him off from his temporary refuge – when Mu woke up and decided he hadn’t had any attention for some hours and wanted some – now. It was amusing.

Things became resolved to everyone’s satisfaction when Rocky’s Mummy called and Laetitia spoke to her and she took Rocky back down The Boulevarde to the exact house where we found him on the street (yes, he was locked out, but not lost at all … although how are you supposed to know that?). His Mummy was pleased to see him, and he her, and the commotion and tumult was over, and I for one just about needed medication to get over it all, having seen for myself, again, how easy it is to ‘lose’ a pet, and how little some people do to assist an apparently lost pet on the street, and how easy it is to get that rescue wrong somehow.

Glad it’s over. And glad Rocky’s with his humans.


[1] Anthropomorphising (if that’s even a word): they did go to the park, but what they did after, and why, is anyone’s guess. And unfortunately they cannot be interrogated on the subject – or indeed on any other subject: they can’t understand their right to remain silent, or any of their other legal rights, as they don’t speak, and barely understand, English. They’re pretty cluey for puppies, though.



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Published in: on November 9, 2010 at 6:47 pm  Leave a Comment  

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