Rick and I go out for a walk around the neighborhood after too many Rosa’s tacos and Proper Queso.
We are in the last couple of blocks when a dog runs up. He’s got that “I’m lost, rescue me” look. I shrug and keep moving. Rick bends over and scrutinizes the little dog’s collar.
His name is Zip. Maybe an Australian shepherd. Cool dog. The owner’s name and phone number are on the collar. I’m not one to talk to strangers, but Rick won’t move. He keeps looking at the tag, and then at the dog, and then at the tag again. And then at me.
I eventually relent and make the call. I leave a message on the owner’s voicemail. Hi walking in neighborhood your dog probably just making rounds but letting you know just in case.
Rick listens. When I hang up, he finally lets go of the collar and we move on. A couple of houses later, I see the owner’s name and number on a sign for a house for sale. She’s a Realtor. Zip must be waiting for her as she shows a home. Crisis averted.
Rick may not know me anymore. He may not know where he lives. But he still knows that you always take care of lost dogs.
Sometimes I hate metaphors …