Welcome Home, Elmo

I was walking my dog earlier today, when I saw this playful, fluffy dog wandering around my apartment building. Because there were so many other people around, I assumed this cloud-like dog was one of those well-trained, off-leash dogs. But the crowd of people passed, and the dog remained. After retrieving a spare leash, I hooked the dog and examined his tags. His name was Elmo.















There was no address on the tag, so I called the number. A man picked up, and I explained the situation. He told me his address, which was about six blocks away, and said his wife would meet me there.

Walking a stranger's dog is very different from walking your own dog. It's like trying on another person's underwear—you know how to do it, but it still feels unusual. Elmo pulled me every which way. He kept tangling me in the leash. He was one of those poor dogs who kept strangling himself on his own collar. Both of us being so poorly trained, me as a pack leader and Elmo as a pack follower, I felt bad our experience was more hardship than pleasure.

Once I arrived at the house, I knocked on the door, but there was no answer. I'd arrived before the wife. So I sat on curb and waited. I noticed the front window to the house was ajar. Elmo must have pushed his way out the window. Silly dog.















It wasn't particularly hot, not like this last weekend that spiked above triple digits, but the small of my back was getting a bit moist. After about 20 minutes, I began to get a bit impatient. Every car that rolled down the street was potentially Elmo's owner, but at least 15 cars passed with no respite for my caregiving.

I thought about putting Elmo back through the window, but I figured he would just escape again without the window being locked from inside. Elmo was jumping on me. Licking my face. When it's your own dog, you don't mind the kisses, but when it's a stranger's dog, excessive licking just feels a bit more unhygienic. Despite him being overly amorous though, he was a good dog.

The wife finally pulled up. She had what I assume was her daughter in pick-up truck as well. Elmo went berserk. He ran around so fast and so erratically that the daughter accidentally hit him in the head when she went to close the truck's door. Elmo was not phased. He was so happy to be home, but the wife grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him inside. I felt a bit sad for Elmo. No wonder he was bad on a leash: Elmo's owner's answer to the leash is grabbing and shoving.

The wife curtly said "thank you" and that was it. I gave up about an hour of my day to bring her dog back, and all I got was a "thank you." Reader, let me clarify that I am not a glory hog. I did not return the dog for a monetary or even emotional reward, but I was expecting something more than a "thank you" and a cold shoulder as she walked into her house. I expected the interaction to be more emotional for the wife. I thought that wife would be ecstatic, but instead, she was matter of fact.

I would have turned down money. I would have turned down an invitation into her home for a drink. I actually don't really know what I was looking for in terms of "reward." Maybe I just wanted more closure. Maybe I just wanted a stronger emotional reaction from Elmo's owners that would prove he was missed while on his journey. Despite Elmo being a stranger's dog, after an hour together, I felt attached to him in a small way—I felt not unlike Jiminy to his Pinocchio. Maybe I wanted proof that the wife loved Elmo as much as I love my dog. Maybe I just wanted proof that I returned Elmo to a loving home. But I didn't get that closure. I guess life doesn't conform to my wishes.

Maybe it's not my place to judge other dog owners, but when I donate an hour of my day to help another family, I feel I gain some right to critique and muse about a situation. If I had to do it over again, I would do it the exact same, thankless way. I did it to help Elmo; I didn't do it for the wife or for her gratitude.