Landed on a Tuesday this year. There was one last Arctic low-pressure system traveling southeast at an unusually fast pace. The morning here was beautiful, with no sign of storm.
Our state butterfly, a zebra longwing, fluttered into the back patio. Sometimes they accidentally get trapped inside because we have a panel that needs fixing.
The children and I went to the home schooling group as we usually do on Tuesdays. While at the park, I sat on a bench that faced north. After thirty minutes, I say the dense, dark gray clouds of the system low in the horizon, at about ten or twelve degrees. I wasn’t worried. Only a few minutes later, when I observed the skies again, the edge of the clouds were higher up (at about 25 degrees!), clearly closer, and its cool winds were racing through the park, threatening the modesty of skirt-wearing mothers. I piled the children into the van and headed for home, hoping that we could travel half a mile down the road before the downpour began. Dad called me on the cellular phone to find about our status. He told me about a bird that had been caught in the screened patio.
It was a good ten minutes that we were out of the van and into the house when the first rains came. The smooth shower was nothing that we had expected, but then it hit us hard, like a summer storm from the Everglades. We like to keep the doors and windows open even when it rains like this to take in the fresh, rainy air. The front door is kept open but the screen door in front of the front door is kept closed.
The bird that was caught in the back patio was an American Redstart. What a sight! He’d fly up to the top of the screen, grab a hold of it with his claws, and spread his tail. What colors! He really was gorgeous. Although he found shelter from the storm, we thought he might be happier in his nest — maybe he has fledglings. We figured that he knew his way out when we couldn’t find him anymore.
I took Kendall into the girls’ room to change her diaper when I heard a strange… conversation… coming from the front window. Dad, in a concerned tone asked the person outside, “Hey, who are you? Do you need help?” I was a little confused. He’s not that sweet with strangers at the door. Who would be wandering the neighborhood streets in this storm, anyway? I heard him put our dog in her crate and open the screen door. I walked down the hall and saw him holding a small dog. The poor thing was wet and shivering. He was without tag but looked well fed. I helped to leash Isis, put down a towel in her crate, and allow the little dog to dry off in Isis’ crate.
For a few hours, we tried to figure out what kind of dog he was and what was his situation. His body was that of a short haired terrier: too small to be a Jack Russell and too large to be a Chihuahua. His eyes didn’t bulge out like a Chihuahua’s, and his ears didn’t lie down like a Jack Russell’s. His coat was short and two-toned, gradient from beige at the head, light gray in the middle and dark gray toward the tail. We thought he was a mutt, I mean, mixed breed. He had a fat, happy belly which meant that someone has been taking care of him. He was pretty good on a leash when going out to do Number One. He growled at our dog a little and nipped Kendall on the finger (because she was bothering him in the crate) which meant he is used to one or two grown owners. But this was all speculation. We also kept our hearts and minds open to adopting him if we couldn’t find his owner.
I went to work that afternoon. When I came back, Little Dog was still in his crate. Of course, he was given water and the food we had. I put him on the leash to go Number One again.
About three times a night, I get up to drink water. Little Dog must have not slept a wink as each time that I walked down the hallway, I found him standing in the crate, facing the hallway, alert as can be. It was obvious that he wasn’t comfortable.
The next morning, Wednesday, Dad left for work. He stopped by the pet store to pick up water and food bowls and a leash for Little Dog. We stayed home on the lookout for cars’ passing very slowly, obviously looking for a lost dog. We walked him on the leash several times around the island of our driveway so that passersby could see us. Dad came home, very excited.
He had seen two flyers on the corkboard at the grocery store, one that described the dog as a “shaved Yorkie.” We googled “shaved yorkie” and agreed that Little Dog could well be a shaved Yorkie. He called the phone number on the flyer.
Not five minutes later, a very nervous and excited woman pulled onto our swale and ran out of her car, asking loudly, “Where is he?” We let her into our home to see where were keeping the dog, and she started to cry. Tears of Joy. Little Dog was happy to see her, and she was relieved as ever to have her little buddy in her arms. She explained that she “moved to the neighborhood thirty days before, was having some work done at the house. The workers left the screen door of patio open, so Harley got lost.” She has a tag for him but will keep it on him from now on instead of just when they go out.
So we were with two extra bowls and a leash. We didn’t need them, so Dad returned them. A couple of weeks later, the store had some corn snakes for sale. On April thirteenth, Dad bought one.
We named him Harley, after Little Dog.
