(If you enjoy what you read, I hope you'll click the "Donate" button above to the left. This work provides my income so ... $1, 50 cents, a little more, maybe less ... will allow me to keep writing. Regardless, thank you for reading. Ted Sillanpaa)
Dozer's a 9-year-old dog who my son saved from a shelter about four years ago. He has, through circumstances difficult to explain, become my most reliable source for attention and affection.
He is not, nor can he ever be, this man's best friend. My best friend wouldn't take off into the night and leave me calling his name as I flashed the light from my cell phone into neighborhood yards.
Hold it.
My best human friends, actually, disappeared completely and I haven't heard from them in awhile. So, I suppose I should leave open the possibility that Dozer is this man's best friend. I know why Dozer took off on me tonight. Who knows why my best pal from Eureka hasn't been in touch in years?
Wait. I'm mad at Dozer and don't want to stop being mad at him simply because he's a good pal who happens to like to jump into my bed and lick my face.
Dozer's part pit bull, part boxer part Indian shepard dog and part knucklehead. The years and time he's spent with me have chased from him the wild habits he had when my son first saved him.
Dozer won't walk out the open front door because, I imagine, he knows the people who feed him and pet him and let him sleep on their beds are inside the house. Four years ago, he was looking through the screen in our front window, saw a family walking past the house and leaped through the screen and onto the front lawn. He ran up joyfully welcoming the family to the neighborhood.
Oddly, the family didn't see anything but a pit bull-boxer mixing sprinting toward them. The mom and two daughters screamed.
I've grown to trust Dozer. We're both living in less than optimum circumstances, so I feel bad for him, too. He's got a yard to patrol, but I know he needs to run. I'd heard on the "Today" show that walks are good for a dog's mental health. We walk a fair amount. I like to let him run sometimes.
If walking around the neighborhood clears his mind, I've determined that letting Dozer ride in the truck to the grocery store should do the same. Tonight, for the first time in awhile, we went to Safeway together.
Upon arriving home, Dozer jumped over me and out the door of the truck. He landed on the street. He did not, however, take off running toward the neighbor dogs who are stuck in a yard, barking and whining day after day, night after night.
"Good idea, pal! Stay here!"
Dozer sprinted toward the front door.
"Atta babe ... ah, c'mon ... c'mon ... you can walk awhile!"
Every so often, I feel like I did tonight and believe Dozer understands what I'm saying. He spun on all four paws and quick-stepped it toward me. I walked alongside him to the corner. No leash. It was dark. Nobody's outside in this neighborhood at 9 at night.
Nobody's outside much after dark in Fairfield. There is a fairly high crime rate. Even in the nicer suburb where Dozer and I were strolling, there are break-ins, daytime burglaries, that type of thing. So, it would take a lunkhead who grew up in a small town and his big, goofy dog to be out walking after dark.
Dozer was ... he was just razor sharp tonight. He ran ahead, whizzing on every other tree. Sniffing every bush. I called his name a couple times and -- he hesitated, waited for me to catch up. I felt like the dog whisperer.
About 5, 6 blocks from home I figured that I'd given Dozer plenty of run.
I shouted, "Stop! Dozer!"
The darned dog stopped.
I walked to him, he sat back and I petted him.
"Way to go! That's the ticket! Let's go back!"
And, together, we turned toward the house.
I felt good about my friend.
My friend felt like exploring.
Dozer bolted toward the biggest front yard he could find. I thought I saw him taking a dump.
Uh, no ... I didn't have a plastic bag to carry his business home in. Heck, I couldn't see anything in the dark.
I didn't want to wake up the neighborhood shouting at Dozer. So, I whispered his name. I heard his footsteps.
I said his name out loud.
"Stop! Dozer! Stop!"
Hey, it worked once.
I heard his breathing as he rushed into some bushes. Which bushes, I wasn't certain because ... it was pitch black.
This was one of those times when Dozer was more parts knucklehead than anything else. He listened to me, until he didn't want to hear anymore.
My stern tone turned to the sound of a man pleading for his dog to come back out of the dark.
More bushes rustling, more dog sounds. So, I pulled out my cell phone and flipped on the flashlight app.
Handy little app.
It didn't shine a light on Dozer. Dozer was gone. I was certain that I heard his whimper ... from the other side of the neighbor's fence.
This isn't my hometown. Nobody really knows anybody in this neighborhood. I'm a guy out walking a big, mean-looking dog at night to everybody, you know?
Someone peeked out their front window, then pulled away quickly. There's no way to show people who don't know you that you're innocent ... that you mean them no harm ... that your dog's just an idiot ... not at 9:30 at night in Fairfield.
I tried to look as harmless and innocent as humanly possible. Then, I walked toward the bushes and crawled through them to find ...
... a gaping hole in the fence that could've given Dozer entry to somebody's backyard.
Oh, it could've given him a way back out, too. But, he's a dog. He once broke through our back fence, got free and realized he'd broken into the neigbor's locked dog kennel. He wasn't going to find his way back out of the yard.
It occurred to me that I was doing what a burglar would do and doing it where a burglar would be doing it ... at a time a burglar might be doing it.
I whispered Dozer's name and sounded as pathetic as I could. I imagined neighbors starting to call 9-1-1, then thinking, "A criminal wouldn't sound that pathetic ... that sound. He sounds like he lost his best friend!"
When I heard the dog whimper again, it sounded like Dozer. I peeked over the fence into the adjacent yard and ... there were two big, goofy mutts romping around.
No Dozer.
The guy who lives in the house with the two dogs actually heard, then ignored me. I'll remember that if I ever get into the burglary business. I rustled the bushes and thought the guy said, "Who's out there?" I said, "I think my dog's in your yard!"
The guy turned and walked into his house.
Thanks, pal.
Dozer had lost his mind, briefly, so I imagined he was in the other yard looking for his bed, looking for our patio door, looking for my daughter to let him inside. A yard's a yard to Dozer in the dark.
So, I brushed the leaves and gunk off my shirt and knocked gently on the neighbor's door.
"Who's OUT THERE?!?!"
See? In my hometown, they'd answer the door. Here, they shout at you and ... expect that a criminal would say, "I'm here to rob you!"
"I live down the street and I think I lost my dog in your back yard!"
That time, I didn't have to try to sound pathetic.
No one answered the door, but I heard the lady in the house shout, "Eric! Eric! Come here!"
I stood on the stoop for a few minutes. It occurred me to telephone my 13-year-old daughter to have her run down the street to help me look particular innocent of any intention of committing my crime.
The lady popped out from around the side of the house.
"Come on back and see if he's back here!"
She smiled.
Eric must've assured her that a robber wouldn't use the "I lost my dog" story.
The backyard looked enough like Dozer's regular yard to confuse him in the dark. I flashed my flashlight app. I called him. It's hard to be embarrassed and mad at Dozer while hoping he'd come rushing with that big, dumb grin on his face.
No Dozer.
I walked back toward the side gate.
"He's not back here! I'm so sorry for bothering you guys so late but ..."
The lady smiled and said, "Is this him?"
Dozer was standing outside the gate, headed toward the gate that looked like our gate at the next nearest house.
He'd gotten away, lost me, then doubled back and found me.
It is possible to be simultaneously pissed, embarrassed and happy to see a dog who made you mad in the first place.
I grabbed Dozer's collar, gently, and we headed home. After a few steps, I let him go and shouted.
"Hit the road, meathead!"
He sprinted to the house and met me at the front door. When I arrived he looked at me. His face seemed to pose the question, "Where did YOU go? I turned around and YOU were gone!"
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