Outside the window, there passed a creature of shaggy white. I thought nothing of it at first, and returned to my work. Then I remembered that day by the pond, weeks ago, when three enormous sports utility vehicles tore through the daisies and duck refuse, windows down, drivers shouting about something. Before them bounded a great disheveled beast whose feet hardly touched the ground. The vehicles struggled over the damp grass and cursed as the white dog disappeared behind a road block, obliging them to take the nearest alley onto the main road and from there guess where he had gone.
Now he seemed to be at my very doorstep. Grabbing a couple of Lenny's dog treats, I rushed outside to find him sniffing the neighbors' grass. His fur was matted and almost brown, and his face had a mashed look, probably once a more graceful attribute upon the snout of one of his grandfathers. But it was him. Maybe there was a bounty. I held out the treats and said "Hey, dog." He turned and looked at me. I stepped towards him, but he stepped away. "Hey dog, you want some treats?" But he knew what I was doing. My foot lifted halfway off the ground; he burst away.
I ran back inside, pulled on some pants, reheated half a piece of pizza, dropped the slimy red thing into a ziplock bag, got on my bike, and took off down in the direction of the white dog, my bait hanging luscious between my thumb and forefinger.
When I found him again, he was at a crossroad, halfway across. He stopped when he saw me on the other side while a nearby truck hesitated, turn signal blinking. I called to him, uselessly. A passing bicyclist wearing spandex and sunglasses puffed at me, "He's been lost for a month now. Won't let nobody near'm." Then the dog chose a different direction and got out of everyone's way.
The real trial was the pond, when I saw him on the other side and quickly rode onto the grass, easy going while the land sloped down to the water, but soggy and uneven the rest of the way. Sweat and mud and heavy breathing were my lot. I barely stayed on his trail while he nosed around various streets in the distance and finally trotted down an alley.
There, by the dumpsters and crusted ruts, I caught up to him, but all he had to do to escape was turn around and run the other way, forcing me to slow down, turn the bike around, and get my speed up again while he gained a good fifty feet on me. But, I reasoned, I had a bike and he had only his legs, and he must surely be feeling a little malnutritioned. I planned to wear him out, chasing him and predicting his movements as well as I could. I chased him down another alley, caught up to him, and scraped the bike around over the dried mud while he ran down a new street. Maybe his owners would give me a lot of money. Maybe I could quit my dishwashing job.
In the end, I lost him. The street bent around, he ran out of sight, and around the bend were several different paths. After biking through and around all of them, it became clear that I probably wouldn't see him again for a while. So I came home, greasy plastic bag swinging from my right handlebar.
As I write this, my mom tells me that the white dog showed up again while dad was walking Lenny. The two of them ran after him, but he was, of course, far too swift.
Some day, white dog, I shall take a small hunting party, and I shall catch you, and you shall grant me wishes.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
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