It's a good life with a few curves to keep us active.
We've designated every Sunday as "donut Sunday." One of us gets up early, dresses quickly, and makes a beeline for Angell's (now Baesler's).
This Sunday was my turn. As I drove slowly up the street, I saw a long-haired wiener dog. He had a defeated droop to his compact, elongated body. Pink tongue lolling from his mouth ... he was a sorry sight.
I couldn't help it. I stopped, got out, crouched down, and held my hand out for him to sniff. He was friendly enough. Looked well cared for, but obviously wanted to be someplace else. This cute little guy then walked toward a house. He hopped up on the porch, tail a wagging.
Well, I know the residents and thought this was probably their dog.
But, what to do? The storm door was closed. The front door was ajar.
I knocked. Yelled. Looked everywhere. No one at home. Now what?
Glancing all around to see if anyone was watching, I picked up this sweetie and loaded him in my car. I've been accused of dog-napping before when I was actually returning a dog to its rightful owner.
Didn't want that to happen again. My new friend traveled well, no barking or clawing at the doors.
First, a stop at the recycling bins south of town. I had to be very careful getting from the car. If this fella bolted I might never catch him and what would the owners do to me then? Slid out of the car, fetched my bags from the back. Walked up to the aluminum can bin. With my arms full, I contorted my upper body to lift the lid on the bin. Got the lid up after a few tries. But, as I lifted the bag of cans, the lid slipped and slid right down my forehead. I had a case of plastic rage right on my noggin.
As human nature dictates, I looked around to see if anyone had witnessed my clumsiness and ineptitude. Why of course. Mr. R. Alexander drove right by as this all happened. I'd be surprised if he didn't spend the next few seconds guffawing.
With my pride shattered, I carefully slid back in the car. I drove to Baesler's, got quietly from my seat, and went to get our donuts. On the drive back home, I worried about what to do with my small guest.
If I left him at what I thought was his owner's home, and he didn't belong there, their other dogs might fight and kill him. If I took him home, our own prickly pets would not be particularly social. A thought them popped in my head. Karen Wilkes was a friend of the people who I believed owned this little dog. She would surely be able to help me. I whipped the Honda around and sped to her home.
Luckily, she was there. I yelled for her to come look at my passenger. We had a discussion, she called the dog's name, Spike (big name for a teeny wiener dog), he responded happily. She thought he belonged to her friend. She offered to keep the dog until the owners returned from church. He went willingly into her arms and I went gratefully back to my own home.
Karen called a couple of hours later. The owners were on the way to pick up their loved pet. I spent most of the day on the couch. That kind of adventure has to be for the younger generation. Wore me out.
However, you do what you would want another person to do. And you deal with life's curves.
Tawni is a retired teacher who lives in Linton. She can be reached by email at firstname.lastname@example.org .