My across the street neighbors have dogs and some peculiar ideas about caring for them. They leave their inside front door open so that their ancient, crippled up, and badly overweight lab, Tuesday, can push his way outside and cruise the neighborhood. At least once or twice a week, I find him wandering down the block, confused, moving slower than molasses, and willing to follow any friendly voice. I keep a leash in my car and he gives me a grateful look as I slip it over his head and lead him home. We walk very slowly, keeping to the grass when possible to save his paws from the intense Louisiana heat, and giving him time to figure out where he is. He’s like a very chunky, very old man who’s lost his way but doesn’t know it. When we get to his house, he mounts the steps carefully and waits while I slip off the leash. I open the storm door and he wanders inside. There’s no sign of life beyond the slow, deliberate clack of his nails on the wood floor. I sometimes call out to see if anyone’s home but I’ve never gotten an answer so I don’t bother anymore.
I’ve talked with his owners who always seem surprised that I go to the trouble of bringing him home but they don’t seem to think it’s a problem. They thank me and shrug off the idea that he could become permanently lost or hit by a car. They appear proud that he’s learned to open the door on his own, don’t seem to be concerned about leaving their house wide open when no one’s at home, and often promise to scold their teenagers who, when they are home, don’t pay any attention to the old dog. I’m not sure they’re even aware of how often he gets out or that someone brings him home.
On this day, he had gotten to the end of the block and actually crossed over to the next. It was a long walk home.
