The Foxe & the Hound

He starts to pull again, having locked onto some kind of woodland creature up ahead. I panic and shove the salmon treat in front of his nose.

“Wild-caught Atlantic salmon treats, Mouse! Remember?!”

He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t give a shit about my stinky salmon treats, because whatever is up ahead is wild and uncaught. I guess that like a character in a cartoon, squirrels probably morph into bacon-wrapped filets in his eyes. He starts to pull and I trot after him, trying desperately to hang on to his leash. He is encouraged by the resistance and starts picking up speed. Suddenly I’m at a full sprint, and I’m convinced I see sparks flying from my high heels.

“No! Mouse! NO. HEEL!” I’m shouting at the top of my lungs, but he’s not listening.

He’s running and I’m tripping over my feet, trying hard to keep up.

“SIT! DOWN! NO! DO YOU WANT A TREAT?!” I’m shouting nonsense at this point, hoping something will stick, but all he hears is the roar of the adoring crowd. He’s gaining speed and I lose my footing. I nearly go down, but I catch myself in the nick of time.

I realize I look and sound hysterical at this point, but I have no choice. I remember seeing news stories about 90 pound teenagers summoning superhuman strength to lift entire cars off of their fathers, so I close my eyes and tug hard on his leash. Unbelievably, the message registers, and for a moment he stops, turns and faces me.

“Good…boy…Mouse…” I whisper, fearful of breaking whatever spell I’d cast. Though he rarely acknowledges my commands, his eyes light up at the sound of praise. He finally notices the homemade treats in my left hand.

“That’s right, Mouse,” I huff, trying to catch my breath. “All of this can be yours, and more, if you just—no, no, don’t look at that squirrel—”

Mouse resumes course, leaping and jerking the leash out of my hand. I go down, limbs flying, and am greeted by the sharp sting of asphalt digging into my left knee and palm. I wince and squeeze my eyes closed, aware of the tears trying to escape down my cheeks. I will not cry. I will not cry over a dog.

“MOUSE!”

I sound bloodthirsty, irate—and I am. As soon as I catch up to him, I am going to surgically attach his leash to my hand, and then I am going to shove the rest of the salmon treats in the trash because the days of salmon treats are over. No more of the good shit—he can eat the store-bought crap like every other mangy mutt.

“Jesus! What the—” a masculine voice says from around the corner.

I whip my head up and the blood drains from my face. That’s where Mouse has gone. He pulled out of my hold and whipped around the corner. I push to my feet and hurry to follow after him, petrified of what I will find on the other side. He’s a friendly dog, but he can be overzealous at times. Like an escaped mental patient that just wants to lick all of the faces in the entire world.

“Mouse!” I try again as I round the corner and find the most horrifying scene imaginable.

The pieces are easy to put together. There is a man sitting on the sidewalk. Mouse is on top of him, licking his face, and maybe that wouldn’t be so bad if not for the mud. I cringe as I stare down at the massive puddle at my feet. I can imagine it now: Mouse rounding the corner, bounding right through the puddle, and then leaping on this stranger with enough force to knock him off his feet. His suit is completely covered in mud—his designer suit from the cut of it.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I cannot afford to buy this stranger a new suit, so I only have one option. I will kill Mouse. I will kill him like Cruella de Vil and make him into a beautiful new fur suit.

“I am so sorry,” I say, but then I realize he can’t hear me because my hand is still covering my mouth, as I’m completely shocked at the audacity of my puppy.

“Are you kidding me?”

That’s what the stranger says.

Though his words aren’t nasty, the tone he uses definitely is.

I leap into action, realizing it’s been nearly a minute and Mouse is still on him, licking his face. I grab ahold of his collar and yank him off.

“Bad dog!” I reprimand, hoping to convey my anger into dog-speak.

Mouse stares up at me, happy and oblivious. To him, it’s been a splendid morning. It’s not yet noon and he’s had a walk, leapt through mud, and mauled a perfect stranger.

The stranger.

I’m reminded that he’s still there as he gets to his feet and wipes at his suit, trying in vain to clear off most of the mud. It’s no use. There are massive, muddy paw prints covering the entire front of his pressed white shirt and blue jacket.