Go, fetch

Elder daughter was returning from doing errands downtown one bright morning in Victoria.

She's staying with Demeter indefinitely while job-hunting in hopes of saving money for grad school.  My envy knows no bounds -- except for the challenges of day-to-day life with Demeter who cherishes the idea that frequent comments on short-comings is a helpful and loving thing to do.  Elder daughter is discovering the painful reality of this.

Anyway, elder daughter was making her way back home through the neighbourhood in which she spent her first eight years of life.  In fact, she was heading east on the street where she used to live when she noticed a dog trotting toward her, wearing a harness and trailing a leash.

Uh-oh.  She managed to catch the small dog, not that difficult, as it seemed rather relieved to be way-laid, and settled on the ground quietly beside her.  Squatting on the pavement, she looked up and down the street, hoping a frantic owner would scurry into view.  Several minutes passed.  She considered knocking on doors, but she had no way of knowing how many streets the pooch had wandered.

Examining the dog's collar, she found a tags with phone numbers.  No one answered the cell number, but there was also a veterinary clinic tag, so she phoned them for advice.  Well, no, they couldn't give her an address; she'd have to phone Animal Control.  Elder daughter balked; Animal Control sounded forbidding.  (This may be my fault for letting her watch The Lady and the Tramp when she was little.)  They rushed to assure her that the Animal Control people were very nice and would contact the owners, as would they.

Little dog, who had sat so peacefully while this was going on, suddenly became frightened and distressed when the young fellow from Animal Control came to put her in his van, despite his gentle manner and (as elder daughter noticed) his good looks.

Later that afternoon, she missed a phone call from the owners themselves who evidently had received her message first and had not retrieved their dog.  No answer again when she returned the call.  This time she had her laptop and did a reverse look-up.

The little dog lived at our old house, where she and younger daughter spent their first few years.

The next morning, elder daughter and I were strolling downtown to meet the rest of the family.  I told her about a couple of my own dog-rescuing adventures, and we wondered if the family living in our beloved former house had managed to make contact with Animal Control, after all. I deliberately took a detour to our old street, and to my daughter's horror, knocked what used to be our front door. (She has been somewhat contaminated by Ottawa reserve, I'm afraid.)

No answer, again.  Except for the barking of a little dog inside.