A Tale of Two Dogs and One Nosy Neighbor



Baxter

Most of the time I mind my own business—okay I don’t—but I try not to get involved as a matter of course.  It’s just when I see something wrong, I turn away like everyone else. 

That’s what you’re supposed to do.  That’s what Americans have been doing for years.

But then I turn back.

Damn but my conscience keeps driving me nuts, yelling what a lousy person I am.

So when I witness an accident, I stop and give my name.  Always. Without fail.

Like the night years ago when I was running to finish my errands because I was seeing Neil Diamond that evening.  I had to pick up my daughter from piano, then give the kids dinner when I saw this guy in a white Ford pickup hit this woman in a green Chevy Malibu.

Well, I wasn't stopping tonight, I thought.  It was just a fender-bender, and I couldn't be late for Neil.

Damn!  How could I leave the scene of an accident?

I braked the car and hurriedly jotted my name, telling the lady I couldn’t stay for the cops because I was rushing my aunt to the emergency room. (Sounded more important than racing to a rock concert).
She was grateful, and I felt better, even if I lied.

There have been others since, like Tuesday.

My neighbor Rosanne has this half-trained mutt named Baxter.   He’s about medium size and blonde with touches of brown.  Only a few of us still love him around here because when Baxter gets out, he NEVER comes when you call.  I mean NEVER.  And he gets into everything.

That’s why this story’s so weird.

A few days ago I drove into my garage.  Stepping from my car, I looked across the street and saw Baxter standing outside alone.   Damn, he got out again!   But today he looked bigger, blonder.

I yelled, “Baxter!” He flinched.  It was him!  I called again, and he shockingly scampered right to my side.  He never did that before.  Certainly was tall, I thought, but I’ve been traveling for weeks and hadn’t been with him.  Grabbing his collar, I pulled him into the house.

Great, he was safe, but what was I going to do?  My kitchen doors don’t close, and my house is filled with very crushable crystal.  I picked up the phone and called Rosanne, who works at an office nearby.

“Well this is a mystery,” she said.

I snickered.  Baxter was always getting out. The whole neighborhood knew he was wild.

“Well I don’t have a leash,” I said, “but I have the key to your house.  I’ll go get your leash, then come back and walk him home.”

Nervous about leaving him in my house, I trotted three doors down and opened her door.   Baxter greeted me.

“Baxter?” I slammed the door shut.  Damn, he was small!  Then who was the dog in my house?

I darted back like they were timing me for the Olympics.  Opening the front door, the dog slipped past me, and I happily let him go.  Panting, I called Rosanne.  She laughed out loud.

“Do you know who that dog was?” she asked, still howling. “I bet it’s Sandy, the Wohlwender's golden retriever."  (Another neighbor on the street).

A Sandy look-alike

                                            
 “But she came when I called Baxter.”      

“All the dogs know his name.”

Mistaken identity, I thought, though the two barely resembled each other.  The only things they shared were the same trees that they dutifully marked and the same dummy neighbor who needed to mind her own business and let life take care of itself.