So, even though I’m only operating at 70%, I left the house this afternoon so I could have some semblance of a vacation. (I didn’t go to church, though, because I like those people and don’t want to infect them. The people in Lincoln, though? Meh.)
I spent the entire ride coughing into some anti-bacterial wipes so there might be a chance Lloyd won’t get this. Who are we kidding? He’s going to get this and the worst day will be Friday – the day of his concert. Sorry, man.
Ok, the story: Lloyd went to choir and I went to do my one errand: dropping off bags and bags and bags of stuff at Goodwill (future post). On the way, I drove by a crummy apartment complex and two little puppies were goofing around – unattended – right by the road! I swung the car around and went to see if I could find their owner. I didn’t want to have the death of two cute dogs on my conscious.
Another guy also came over to check on the dogs – he said that he had almost hit them, too. They had collars but no tags, so I asked a gentleman in a nearby house if they were his, and he said they belonged to a lady/couple who lived on the top floor of the apartment building.
Here’s where it gets weird: I could see the front door of apartment #6, and it seemed open. I walked up to check, and it looked liked the door had been kicked in – the jamb was splintered and the lock plate was all crooked. The lights were on and I could hear music, so I hollered, “Hello? Hello?” I did not go in.
I walked down to the next flight and Guy was holding one of the dogs. He said, “I can take one if you take the other.” “What?” I gasped. He said something about how he knew about pit bulls and this one was too skinny and “…. she doesn’t deserve it..” and that was weird. I said that I thought we should leave the lady a note about where to find her dogs and he said, “I’ll just take ’em to the humane society.” He went to his car, and I was somehow of the impression that he was going to come back for the other dog and I could talk to him some more, but he didn’t come back.
That’s when I thought I should probably call the police.
Now, I’ve only called 911 one other time in my life, and let’s just say – I stink at it. Rule number one: Know where you are. (The first time it was at Lincoln Lutheran choir practice when a lady collapsed. I dialed and when the dispatcher asked, “What is your location?” I stammered, “Um…. I’m…. at…. a church…..” I went blank and desperately looked around for some letterhead with the church name and address.)
This time was hardly any better. As I dialed I thought, “Dang! They’re going to ask where I am!” I ran downstairs and figured it out. In a short time two officers arrived and went up to check the scene. Fortunately they didn’t find anyone murdered (whew), and they put the puppy inside the apartment, along with a note to call the officers.
Holy cow. I went about my errand but couldn’t stop thinking of that dog. What if they were drug dealers who never came home? What if that dog died up there? Paranoia was reigning supreme, and I wondered how I was going to sleep with a cough and visions of a dying puppy.
Semi-happy ending: Within an hour the officer called me back and said the couple that lived there were home and they wanted to ask me about the missing dog. I was nearby, so I just went over, but not before I called Lloyd’s phone and left a message saying, “If I don’t pick you up from practice, I have been murdered and here’s where you’ll find my body.”
The lady – girl, really – was pretty nice, but her boyfriend was of the angry sort. Turns out she had been at the downstairs neighbor’s the whole time (having a coffee and cigarette) and wondered what all that noise was. Ok. I told her everything I knew and said I hoped she’d be able to get the other dog from the humane society.
It was all very surreal. It turns out that I am not the kind of person you want in this situation – I’m a terrible eyewitness, and I might give you a cold.