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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Tuesday, 03 November 2009 05:07 |
 By Francis Scudellari
On a typically overcast mid-October day, I was walking my ex-wife’s two pugs (yeah, you read that right) when I happened upon a lost dog. Actually, it was Lucy who found him, with her canine sense of smell much keener than my more evolved human eyesight.
She was proceeding through the alley head-down to do her daily sniffing when an unexpected scent perked up her routine and set her off to barking. Albert, her other escort, meanwhile maintained the nonchalant wait-and-see attitude best befitting the male of any species.
Curious at what could get Lucy so up-in-paws, I peeked past the clump of weeds where her nose had been buried. He was hard to see at first, a pile of black tucked into the corner of a securely fenced parking lot, and well-hidden beneath a tree’s still thick but yellowing leaves.
He smiled back at me unconcerned with Lucy’s little woofs. He didn’t seem in any immediate distress, and I wasn’t sure if he belonged to someone in the pricey condo building beyond the lot, so I decided to leave him there and check back in a few hours when Tracy (said ex-wife) got back from work. It was about four in the afternoon.
Fade to black for a few hours of uneventful waiting. Then, with night fallen, I met Tracy coming off the El and we ambled over to check on the dog. He hadn’t budged in the three-plus hours that had passed, so now it was time to scheme how to get him out from the lot.
The most obvious and easiest answer was to ask one of the residents to open the gate so we could grab him. That said, I had a suspicion anyone living in a building whose perimeter was so securely lined with imposing fences would probably be of a distrusting temperament.
Whether a self-fulfilling prophecy or a Nostradamus-like premonition, an Arianna Huffington look-a-like emerged onto a balcony in response to Tracy’s random buzzer push and right on cue she gave us an icy “I won’t let you in.”
Given her complete lack of concern for the dog, she must not be a pet owner. She does however have something very essential in common with little Lucy, and by that I mean they’re both a thing that rhymes with “witch.”
On to Plan B, which I had yet to formulate. One option was for me to scale the fence and try to sneak the dog around to the front. This however inspired visions of Arianna calling the police, and though that prospect didn’t seem to bother Tracy very much, I had no interest in spending the night in lock-up.
We settled on coaxing the dog out of hiding in hopes he could squeeze through the gap in the gate. Tracy lured him with her sweetest voice and after some tugging on the fence we were able to create an opening that he just barely fit through, with a helping hand to push out his back hips.
He was a bit hobbled, perhaps from sitting in one place so long, but otherwise fine. As best I could tell he was a black Labrador. He was also still a puppy, but not a small dog. This fact was proved conclusively when he refused to walk up the back steps to Tracy’s apartment and he had to be carried.
Once inside he did perk up quite a bit, especially upon seeing the pugs who inspired his playful side. After a bath and a feeding, I took him back to my place to spend the night until I could figure out how to locate his home.
Unfortunately he was without a collar and identifying tags, so my first thoughts were of posting flyers around the neighborhood or dropping him off at a local shelter, neither of which seemed like a very effective way to find the dog’s owner.
Thankfully my always-more-clever friend Alicia reminded an old-paradigm-besotted brain that there was a good chance the owner might have had an RFID (Radio-Frequency Identification) microchip implanted in the dog. These chips are the size of a grain of rice and hold an identifying number that can be used to retrieve the owner’s contact information.
They are injected under the skin with a syringe, and they can be read by a handheld scanner similar to what you see in retail and grocery stores. The procedure is painless and done without anesthesia.
Armed with this information, the dog and I headed out to the pugs’ vet the next day. They offered to scan him for free (as any vet will), and as Alicia had guessed he did have a chip. It took a few minutes to locate the owner’s contact information online, and they soon had him on the phone.
He was very thankful to learn that his Deacon had been found, and I was happy to leave Deacon with the vet where he would be picked up later in the day. It was good I hadn’t tried to post flyers, because Deacon’s wanderlust had taken him a few miles from his Evanston home.
I’ll admit I’ve always been a little wary of microchips. It’s most likely the residue of too many years spent watching the X Files and its tales of arch government conspiracies. The ease with which the vet’s office was able to locate Deacon’s owner has converted this non-believer, at least in regard to pets.
If you own a pet, especially one prone to making unexpected dashes, you should contact your veterinarian’s office to learn more. And if your pet does stray, I hope that the person who finds it has a little more compassion than the faux Arianna. |
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