So I was driving kids around town on Friday afternoon when the vice principal from the elementary school called. Our conversation:
V.P.: "Mrs. Dopp, there's a dog here and somebody thought it might be yours."
Me, pulling over and getting ready to turn around to get Star: "Is it a little Schnauzer?"
V.P.: "No, it's a big Rottweiler."
Me, turning the car around again: "Oh, OK. Is he super nice?"
V.P: "Nicest dog I've ever met."
Me: "Then I know whose dog he is. I'll call you when I get home and give you their phone number...or something. I can't remember their name, but their dog has visited us before."
I texted myself before I started driving again to remind myself to get the phone number of the...uh...someone family, the owners of the dog my kids call Cujo, who really is the nicest dog you've ever met, even though he looks absolutely terrifying.
But something happened in my foggy brain that made me think it would be easier to just go to the school, get the dog, put it in my car and take it to its home. Easier than going inside my house to get the ward directory and calling the school. A few minutes later, I was being dragged along by a 150-pound Rottweiler with a jump rope tied around his neck. Yes, the thought did occur to me that it wasn't a good idea, and probably more complicated than retrieving a piece of paper from my kitchen cupboard.
Cujo willingly got in my car and made himself comfortable on the back seat, on top of a spilled Crayola 64-pack. I bet he broke almost all 64 crayons with one paw step. I said to Ruby, "What happened to "Other people's problems are not my problems?" I was doing so well not taking on things I didn't want to take on! With my new mantra, I was becoming pleasantly and comfortably selfish and loving it. Talk about falling off the wagon. Now I was driving around with a giant, allergy-inducing drool machine in my back seat, and I slowly realized that I didn't actually know where the owners lived. I just thought I did. My only course of action was to drive to the house where the dog family doesn't live and say, "Hi. I have a Rottweiler in my car who doesn't live here, but I thought he did, so, um, do you know the people I was thinking of?" Which is exactly what I did, and it worked, thank heavens.
I finally got the dog to the right owner, who happened to be standing in his front yard wondering where his dog went. As I drove away, I said, "By the way, we always call your dog Cujo. What's his real name?"
"Boozer. Carlos Boozer."
Sorry, Jazz fans.
V.P.: "Mrs. Dopp, there's a dog here and somebody thought it might be yours."
Me, pulling over and getting ready to turn around to get Star: "Is it a little Schnauzer?"
V.P.: "No, it's a big Rottweiler."
Me, turning the car around again: "Oh, OK. Is he super nice?"
V.P: "Nicest dog I've ever met."
Me: "Then I know whose dog he is. I'll call you when I get home and give you their phone number...or something. I can't remember their name, but their dog has visited us before."
I texted myself before I started driving again to remind myself to get the phone number of the...uh...someone family, the owners of the dog my kids call Cujo, who really is the nicest dog you've ever met, even though he looks absolutely terrifying.
But something happened in my foggy brain that made me think it would be easier to just go to the school, get the dog, put it in my car and take it to its home. Easier than going inside my house to get the ward directory and calling the school. A few minutes later, I was being dragged along by a 150-pound Rottweiler with a jump rope tied around his neck. Yes, the thought did occur to me that it wasn't a good idea, and probably more complicated than retrieving a piece of paper from my kitchen cupboard.
Cujo willingly got in my car and made himself comfortable on the back seat, on top of a spilled Crayola 64-pack. I bet he broke almost all 64 crayons with one paw step. I said to Ruby, "What happened to "Other people's problems are not my problems?" I was doing so well not taking on things I didn't want to take on! With my new mantra, I was becoming pleasantly and comfortably selfish and loving it. Talk about falling off the wagon. Now I was driving around with a giant, allergy-inducing drool machine in my back seat, and I slowly realized that I didn't actually know where the owners lived. I just thought I did. My only course of action was to drive to the house where the dog family doesn't live and say, "Hi. I have a Rottweiler in my car who doesn't live here, but I thought he did, so, um, do you know the people I was thinking of?" Which is exactly what I did, and it worked, thank heavens.
I finally got the dog to the right owner, who happened to be standing in his front yard wondering where his dog went. As I drove away, I said, "By the way, we always call your dog Cujo. What's his real name?"
"Boozer. Carlos Boozer."
Sorry, Jazz fans.
7 comments:
Glad it worked! Carlos Boozer might make your van a little too crowded if he lived there:)
That is hilarious Circe!!
You are so nice!
The front side to this story is that before the VP called you, he called me and said, "Is this Mrs. Dopp? There is a dog here at the school and someone said it might be yours." I told him we didn't have a dog, but that our cousins, the other Dopps did, and asked if the pooch was a cute little Schnauzer. He said, "Oh, I'm sorry, this is a Rottweiler." I told him you knew the neighborhood well and maybe you would know who owned the dog so I gave him your number. Sorry that little issue got dumped on your lap. You are so kind to have taken the dog home. I thought the school would have just called the pound.
Another classic story! You tell it so well. Glad you found his real home!
That is such a funny story!
Hee hee. Where's a photo?? Yes, you created a fantastic mental image, ... but still!
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