Woof, woof

KNICK, KNACK

 

Tango is outside. I can see him peeing on our mail box pole. By the time I brush my teeth, he comes bounding up the stairs, jumps on my back and I fall on the bathroom mat. He can still smell my Barbasol shaving cream that I had washed off, licks it until he decides to untie my shoes. Time is short this morning. I tell him that but he doesn't understand me yet. I leave the bathroom and remember I left the water running in the sink. Another few minutes wasted. There is barely time for me to take a swig of cold O.J. and manage a cup of black coffee, a hug for Bev, and get to my car.  I try not to pay attention to Tango's barking, try to forget the fluffy ball of fur that came to live with Bev and me a month ago.

 

My sister, Madeline and her husband had considered moving to a new condo but cancel when they learn no pets allowed, except fish. That is understandable as is her change of heart a second time. Maddy cries to us, begs, pleads for us to take Tango to our hearts. 'We can't sell him to a stranger, Bev.' We understand that too. 'We'll come visit, take him for Sunday walks now and then.' Until we give in I fear Maddy is going to need a psychologist, go on mind pills. 'Maddy,' I whine. 'I work 8 to 10 hours a day. Bev has her life, her world to handle. We can't play with Tango, get him to the vet for check ups, walk him three or four times every twelve hours. No can do.' I turn numb when I see her eyes turn red, tears running down her face. I get an okay from Bev and concede to give him a one week try-out.

 

Tango takes to us like whipped cream clings to chocolate pie. I order a new front door with a doggie entrance. Maddy offers me the $100 cost plus $50 for installation. I start to accept it but Bev is shocked, calls me 'cheap' and embarrasses me badly. After only two weeks Maddy calls  only on Sundays and Wednesday evenings. They have not visited us nor Tango, have kept no promises of walks. This I don't understand at all. I get a chilling thought that if I die, maybe my sister won't even come to my funeral. Bev and all of the kids and some of the parents in our neighborhood have fun with Tango. Grumpy old widows, men pushing eighty are afraid, want no parts of a frisky dog. I understand that.
Tango sits calmly in the bathroom, waiting for me to shave. He loves the smell of the cream and whines expecting me to give him some. I'm tempted but keep control. Send him out and close the door.

 

Bev and I have a simple routine worked out. While I have my usual quick breakfast, Tango goes thru his own door, meets some other dogs, annoys Mrs. McCartney and comes back when he hears me start my car. Bev opens the door to wave to me and Tango seems to sprout wings to fly inside and jump on her. Today is different but I don't know it until after I get back from Stein's Delly where I have lunch almost every day. There are a few business calls and one nervous, excited one from Bev. Tango never came in when I drove away. She has been out looking for him, calling him since ten o'clock.  'Bev, he'll be back. I can't do anything you aren't doing. Call him. Ask our neighbors if they've seen him. Call me back about 2.'

 

No Tango when I get home. The house is empty, sad. I decide to drive to Petco, get a new toy for Tango and a huge box of Doggee Bones. I crush the bones with a hammer, put them in a plastic bag and start walking around the block, all the time calling, 'Come, Tango, come.' Somebody stole him. I call the police, the SPCA. No sign of our dog.
Bev and I eat listlessly, check the port door and go to bed.

 

Barking wakes us just as we are about ready to fall asleep. Like crazed idiots we hurry downstairs. There must be ten dogs on our pavement, up the path to our front door.  They seem to have eaten all the crushed Doggee Bones. Tango is the last one in line. Parading himself to the front we see a cute little black poodle close behind him. I lock the door, give both dogs a bowl of water and pieces of Doggee Bones I still have in the car. ' Look at these two. Cute, huh? I used subterfuge to make the capture. My mom had taught me that if you want your dog to be your friend, sing to hm, 'Knick Knack, paddy whack. Give your dog a bone, your old dog will come rolling home.'

 

In the morning I located the owner of the poodle, returned her to the lady along with half a dozen Doggee Bones.