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Remember a couple few entries back, in which Amy and I took a stray dog to the Humane Society? The next day he was on their web site as "found" and the day after that he wasn't, so Amy and I reasoned that he'd been picked up by his family. Right we were. We got a letter from the Humane Society yesterday, thanking us for helping "Rufus". I thought he was more tawny than rufous, but OK. The letter says that Rufus' family picked him up "the very next day", and that they'd "missed their friend terribly". Gives one warm fuzzies, eh? Then last night, after Amy got home from work, we went in search of some food. As we walked to the 24-hour convenience store, what do we see? A stray dog (not Rufus, thank heavens) wandering down the opposite sidewalk. Well. Still basking in the glow of that thank-you from the Humane Society, what could we do? We both knew what would happen...we'd go get the lost pup, give him some snacks, get on the streetcar and cross Toronto, dead tired in the middle of the night, and drop off this latest homeless pooch. Why? Because a) it was bloody cold out and that's just the right thing to do, and b) we'd set a standard for ourselves. We couldn't let the letter down. We were just grumbling about how much of a pain this was going to be when, lo, the dog's very own human came 'round the corner of a building. Saved! The pooch wasn't lost, just lagging behind a bit. His human opened the door and into the warmth he went. Amy and I could go buy frozen chicken fingers and spicy noodle soup (a bad combo before bed, by the way) with a clear conscience. |
