This is the story of a burglarized car, a malfunctioning house lock, a nomad cat that pooped in our Asian jasmine and our cat-poop-loving dog Sam being hit by a car.
The morning seemed doomed from the start. First, my visiting brother-in-law Larry returned from taking his dog, Max, outside, and reported that someone had broken the driver's-side window and stolen the GPS during the night.
It was early. We should have gone back to bed.
Instead, we tramped outside to see glass on the street. We called the police. They arrived, took a report, and we ate breakfast.
Then we tramped outside once again to clean up the mess. This is when the bolt on the front door of our house decided it had had enough action and was going to stick. It does this regularly. As we studied that problem, Sam, our fleet-of-foot heeler mix, decided to take the opportunity to bolt through the open door.
His first stop: to scoop up the cat poop he'd snatched from the Asian jasmine during our first trip outside. He had no chance to sample it then because I made him drop it. But memory served him well. The poop sat right beside the sidewalk where he'd left it.
His second stop: away from human aggressors and toward the car coming down the street. He did not see the car because he was scurrying away with his prize. Or maybe he saw the car and thought he could beat it.
His third stop was the front bumper of the car. Our 50-pound bundle of dog hit metal, rolled like a tackled quarterback and ran back into our front yard, with me quick on his lowered tail.
Sam had slowed by now. He'd dropped -– or swallowed -– the cat poop. Its fragrant aroma lingered like an aura. We felt him all over and found no obvious injuries. My sister-in-law Joy and I gathered what was left of our wits, put Sam in the car, and took him to the vet's office. By now all of us smelled of cat poop. It was not yet 9 a.m.
The doctor was in and his efficient vet techs ushered us to a treatment room, checked Sam's gums and performed a quick evaluation of his heart rate and pulse-oxygen with a nifty gizmo. The doctor listened to Sam's heart, checked out his legs and gave him a shot. He said he believed our active little friend had dodged a bullet. Joy asked if he had any dog breath mints.
I didn't get a chance to find out whom the driver of the car was, although she stopped and I yelled across the street that the dog was OK. "Really?" I heard her say. After being reassured by Larry, she drove away.
This was not Sam's inaugural visit to the street. As a puppy, he once backed out of his collar and ran across four lanes of traffic in another city. Your first instinct when your dog runs is to chase him. My husband and I crossed the same four lanes in pursuit before realizing we were stupid. We got him back after a car stopped just in time.
Sam has gotten loose since then, too, but no cars were involved those times.
I would like to apologize for scaring the motorist, and to thank her for stopping, and to tell her that once again, it looks like we will get our heart's desire of keeping this lively, happy, and not-so-wise dog until we are doddering old fools instead of slow younger fools.
Unless we die first, which is a distinct possibility.
