No, seriously, it was dog. And I didn't know his name. I found him as I was driving home. He was running along side a ditch, popping up and off the road, looking kind of confused as to where the hell he was supposed to go.
Ok, first of all, I never do that. As in, I have never pick up a stranded animal without kind of knowing where they came from. Ok, well hardly ever. Call me a bleeding heart. But there was something about this poor dog that just made me pull over and want to help him.
I think it was his eyes.
He was so good. SO GOOD. And when I pulled over on that hot, hot day, he was panting so hard and, at least to me, looked so discombobulated that I just had to take him. Just HAD to. And when I opened the door, he literally looked at me, considered the air-conditioned car and went right in.
I checked his collar. No tag. after some discussion with my mom, we decided to call him Murphy. Mostly because I knew a big, beautiful, lug-head of a dog named Murphy in Toronto. And he was lovely. And this dog reminded me of him.
So, on we went for Friday night and all day Saturday. We went for walks, he played with Roxy and dealt with Maisy, who was having a complete and utter meltdown. As would I, if I were in her shoes.
I mean, really. I can just imagine her saying SERIOUSLY? I PUT UP WITH ROXY LIVING IN MY KINGDOM AND SHARING MY MOTHER FOR HOW MANY MONTHS AND NOW YOU WANT ME TO GET ALONG WITH ANOTHER FUCKING DOG?
I'M ELEVEN FUCKING YEARS OLD. HOW DAMN CRAZY ARE YOU?And I get it. You poor sweet little thing.
In the meantime, Roxy fell in love. If he moved, she moved. If he yawned, she got up and went over to see what was wrong with him.
She stood over him when he was sleeping, and tried to nudge him into playing every chance she got.
But poor ol'Murphy was sad. He wanted his family back. And although it took everything in him to try and get comfy with us, we could tell he just could not let go until he was back home.
Uh, Murphy?
Anyhow, to make a long story even longer, we looked for his home. We went to the local Humane Society, which is closed on weekends and didn't respond to voicemails. We called the local police, who told us to either keep the dog until Tuesday morning or drive him back to the place we found him and leave him there to fend for himself. Maybe, they said, he would find his way home.
Uhm...ok. No.
We did a little recon of our own. We went to different houses along that stretch and asked around. We walked along the place we found him to see if he recognized anything.
And then my mother, bless her little heart (and thanks to the idea from my sister), went on Myzer. And lo and behold was a lost and found posting for a 'gentle giant'.
A gentle giant. Yep, that was our Murphy. Except his name was Dakota. A dog that ate well, sat well and shook a paw when asked. A dog that knew well enough to stay the hell out of Maisy's way, and played like a sucker with Roxy. A dog whose tongue was as big as my hand.
The two were reunited. And it felt so good. And then I sang that song for the rest of the day.
Bye-bye, sweet boy.
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