Dog Day Morning

This morning, like most Sunday mornings, I was taking Sage for his morning Poop 'n' Pee at Crestmoor Park. (If he were a Mozart character, he'd be Poopageno.) When up comes this tiny mouse of a Chihuahua, no leash, no owner in sight, making its way along Alameda Avenue. After I saw that it had tags, and after it saw that Sage hadn't mistaken him for a squirrel, I scooped him up and took him back home to call the owner.

Turns out the dog's name was Chucky. This is either ignorance or hubris, to name a Chihuahua that you wouldn't have to pay extra postage on after a demon-possessed ventriloquist's dummy. Now, this dog couldn't have been more that 5 pounds, if that. Sage weighs over 100 lbs., and that's before breakfast. If Sage had, by error, sat on this dog, the phone call would have been in vain. Sage's head is bigger that this dog. This dog, literally, couldn't get his mouth around a piece Sage's dog food. How he eats, what he eats, is a mystery to science.

Now you would think that, given that situation, discretion would be the better part of valor. Kind of like Qatar asking if it can please build us a bigger runway before we build it ourselves. But when I put him in the crate (for his protection, and that of my carpets), Sage would wander over, and this dog would start hissing and snapping. Sage pretty much figured that he wasn't worth it, and walked away. It's as though Muggsy Bogues had decided to take a charge against Shaquille O'Neal. Muggsy's lucky if he doesn't need to buy a ticket to get back into the arena.

The good news is that the owner did come by and pick him up. Thank goodness. I'd have hated to get cited for keeping rats in the house.