Miss Fathergill used to jog down to my mailbox, a mere three houses from hers, turn, and scamper home, her Einstein fluff of lightning-white hair wisping about in the wind. I’d wave to her from my window, then go back to my paperwork. I was always too busy to chat, what with my teaching preparations that were tops on the to-do-list then. Time and people around me gusted by.
One day recently, out strolling, long after Miss Fathergill had joined the eternal society of celestial runners, I noticed a pale chihuahua trembling enthusiastically toward me. I did wonder briefly if it was Miss Fathergill come back in new form. There was something very familiar to the petite dog’s eager pace. I attempted to shake the little panting stalker, but he was ardent. It occurred to me that he could get hit and injured--or worse--if he made his way to the four-lane down the hill from my quieter street. Then I remembered that a couple across the lane had recently acquired a dog that often barked at me from its furtive post behind a window shade, and I deduced that this must be the same canine. As my new best friend gladly ran a few steps in front of me, I approached the couple’s house. I knocked, and a young woman opened the door. The chihuahua at my feet charged ahead, racing into what I presumed was familiar territory.
“Your dog was in the street…,” I began but didn’t finish because, just then, I happened to notice a somewhat darker beige chihuahua of a similar size enveloped in her arms.
“That’s not my dog!” she shrieked as the errant pooch that had accompanied me began to explore her living room with vigor.
I froze, shocked and embarrassed, realizing this crafty interloper could have harmed her or her legitimate pet.
“Babe,” she called out. “Babe, come here and see if you can recognize this stray.”
‘Babe’ ambled languidly up the hallway and lifted his sleepy eyes to meet mine, “Hmm.”
I looked back at him, head tilted to one side, and adopted what I hoped was a friendly pose.
He yawned conclusively and shuffled back to his bed, muttering, “Don’t know her.”
One day recently, out strolling, long after Miss Fathergill had joined the eternal society of celestial runners, I noticed a pale chihuahua trembling enthusiastically toward me. I did wonder briefly if it was Miss Fathergill come back in new form. There was something very familiar to the petite dog’s eager pace. I attempted to shake the little panting stalker, but he was ardent. It occurred to me that he could get hit and injured--or worse--if he made his way to the four-lane down the hill from my quieter street. Then I remembered that a couple across the lane had recently acquired a dog that often barked at me from its furtive post behind a window shade, and I deduced that this must be the same canine. As my new best friend gladly ran a few steps in front of me, I approached the couple’s house. I knocked, and a young woman opened the door. The chihuahua at my feet charged ahead, racing into what I presumed was familiar territory.
“Your dog was in the street…,” I began but didn’t finish because, just then, I happened to notice a somewhat darker beige chihuahua of a similar size enveloped in her arms.
“That’s not my dog!” she shrieked as the errant pooch that had accompanied me began to explore her living room with vigor.
I froze, shocked and embarrassed, realizing this crafty interloper could have harmed her or her legitimate pet.
“Babe,” she called out. “Babe, come here and see if you can recognize this stray.”
‘Babe’ ambled languidly up the hallway and lifted his sleepy eyes to meet mine, “Hmm.”
I looked back at him, head tilted to one side, and adopted what I hoped was a friendly pose.
He yawned conclusively and shuffled back to his bed, muttering, “Don’t know her.”
