Busted

I was weeding the front flowerbeds on Sunday morning when the neighbor from across the street came over and pointed out a little floofy dog trotting down the sidewalk. We live on a cul-de-sac but the dog was moving along the larger street that has a decent amount of car traffic on it throughout the day. He asked me if I knew where it belonged. He was right: it was clearly an escapee, recently groomed and not yet too wet or muddy despite it being a damp morning. I said it looked like the floofy dog from the house at the end of the park, a long narrow affair with a bike path that parallels a small creek located behind my neighbor's house. He said, well, it has a collar and a tag but it won't let me get close enough to see if there is a number.

So I put down my tools, took off my gloves, and approached the dog while saying in a very high-pitched voice, where's your mom? Why are you out walking around this morning? And other silly nonsense things. My neighbor stared at me like I was crazy, but the little dog came running right into my arms. Of course. Because a small dog that has been well cared for will certainly be used to being held and will certainly be used to silly talk in a high-pitched voice.

I picked him up and held his collar out for my neighbor to see. He called the number and sure enough, it was the people that lived in the house at the end of the park.

Sadly, I completely outed myself, but it was for a good cause.