Let me preface this post by admitting that I did not license Max since he's been with us. I kept meaning to, but I have a healthy disgust for the police in our small town and I do not like to willingly walk through the doors of their offices for any reason. So yes, it is all my fault. But I still don't think it makes it any less of an ordeal.
Max has run away 3 times since we rescued him from the pound a month or so ago. The first time my sister and her husband spotted him by the Zip Zone (a little gas station/mini-mart). Bless their hearts, they managed to coax him into their car - my sister worrying the whole time that it might not even be our dog. Anyway, she went above and beyond the call of sisterly duty and Max got another car ride, which he lives for.
The second time, I was out cleaning the back lawn after S's bday party. It was windy and hot. C. had unlatched the back gate for me to hose down the back of the garage (I have an unhealthy fear of our neighbors on the 4th of July and tend to up the water bill by soaking every potentially flammable surface with water). It was just getting dusk, and the wind blew the gate open. I turned for 3.5 seconds, turned back around and Max was gone. I went out the back gate and a guy in the alley said, "your little dog? he went thatta way." I flew into the house, C. was napping, S. was laying on the couch. I had to put a bra on, and I was out the door in less than a minute, dragging S. with me to the car. Max had only gotten the next block over. Apparently those little legs are not made for quick travel, either that or he stopped to pee on everything in sight. He was lifting his leg on two little neighborhood urchins when we spotted him.
And then, last night. We went to take S.'s friend home, try to buy a pool cover, and get a Slurpie (TM). When we got home, no Max. We checked the whole yard, the shed, the garage - no dice. I ran to the car. S. came with. We cruised the streets looking for a short man with a long middle. I do not know how I drove and looked for a dog at the same time. It is not easy. I spotted a man sitting in a chair holding Max. I screeched to a stop, got out of the car, and walked toward the poor guy. It was not Max. Apparently there is a common bond that all dachshund owners share, because this man wanted to talk about their little habits and quirks. I do not know why because I clearly looked like a maniac, and I'd told him I'd lost our dog. He had all the time in the world to shoot the breeze, but I did not.
C. hopped on his scooter and started to look for him, too. I have no idea what he was thinking. How is a 6' 7" guy on a scooter going to hold a floppy eared sausage dog AND drive at the same time?
We passed each other several times, but no Max.
Finally I pulled up to the house, parked the car, and told S. we'd have to go on foot. We went to the next block calling his name. A little old lady heard us and told us that if we were looking for a weiner dog that the lady across the street had him. I boldly knocked on the front door of a house I wouldn't normally sell cookies at, and a lady answered. She was very nice. She'd had had Max, but had since called the police. My heart sank. I thanked her profusely and walked back home. Calling the police non-emergency line as I walked. The officer who answered was not helpful. He said Max was in lock-up at a vet's office nearby. I asked what the protocol was for getting my dog back. "Call the vet's office during their hours of operation," he barked and hung up.
Long night. No sleep. Terrified that the "boarding fee" for Max would be a million dollars for just one night. It has been a long month. New tires. Air conditioner breakdown. S.'s b-day. C.'s surgery on his neck. It was not pretty.
7:45 this morning the vet's office calls. They have Max. I asked what to do. Basically I was to go to the police station, pay an impound fee, license him, and then drive to the vet's to pick him up.
I went to the police station. The cranky lady tells me I'd have to go verify it was my dog and then drive back and take care of the fees, then drive back to the vet and claim him. Which I stupidly did. If I'd been thinking, or less tired, I would have realized that the only way for the vet to know who Max's owners were was to scan his chip, so they indeed did have my dog. But I'm glad I humored the old bat, because nothing turns a beaurocrat's mood upside-down better than knowing they've made you perform unnecessary steps to a process. By the time we'd returned, she was all chatty and said she'd owned two dachshunds and how stubborn they were yadayadayada.
Drove back to the vet to claim Max, and paid $19.00 for a luxury night's lodging. The damned dog did not even have the decency to look apologetic or even contrite.
Max is now only allowed outside on tie-out.
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