Muffled, but joyful, barks bounce randomly off the walls around the neighborhood, followed by scampering paws and the mournful pleas from the supposed owner.
“Beau? Beau? I have a treat!!”
Beau, or Bao, or Bear, or whatever the melanin-deprived Shepherd is actually named, is obviously unimpressed. He gallops around my house, up and down the alley, around my garden again, and then tries to get into our house, yipping with excitement, barely inconvenienced by the loose fabric joke of a ‘muzzle’ he is wearing.
“Beau? Oh, can you catch him? Just distract him for a moment — I have a treat!” says the woman from beneath a bubble umbrella (a style I haven’t seen since I was in grade school). She runs up to my back steps, jabbing a long piece of some doggy comestible in the general direction of the dog’s mouth.
A treat, of course, doesn’t compare with freedom. A plea doesn’t register as any different now than at any previous time. Want what you want, lady — I’ll get back to you, maybe…
The dog bounds off down the block, splashing through the puddles in the alley, heading ….towards a busy intersection. The supposed owner runs after him, then, returns, alone, to her car, to try and continue following him.
Beau, good luck. I hope someone, someday, speaks to you with authority, and you realize that listening to that voice is worth doing. That person is your owner.