Wayward dog #2 - Stella (again)

I totally called it. We had a crazy storm on Friday night/early Saturday morning, and I said I bet we found a wayward dog sometime Saturday. I figured it would be some new dog, though.

Stella hadn't quite made it to the trail when I first saw her this time. She was nervously making her way through the neighborhood, randomly running from yard to street. Before greeting Luke and me (which is how I caught her), she nearly got hit by a car.

I should have known that was too easy. Not five minutes after I called her owner, skinny Stella slipped out of our backyard gate with Zach. So began a 20-minute game of chase as she zipped around the neighborhood a couple of blocks over. Her most infuriating trick is lying down in the grass as if she's tired and looking at you with eyes that beg for a pet. As soon as you get close to her, she takes off again.

Fortunately, she ran right up to a young couple and their son, who, as the owners of a sweet brindle pit bull named Zeus, were willing to help us nab Stella. Enticing her with french fries, their child, the chance for a car ride and the chance to go inside still seemed to take forever. But someone finally snagged her collar, and Zach fashioned his belt into a makeshift leash.

When we got back to our house, Stella's owner was pacing our property in confusion. He seemed embarrassed that I was returning his dog for the third time in about a month. (Apparently, this time storm damage messed up their fence.) As he put one of those slip-leashes the vet gives you around the dog's head, he explained that she's supposed to be part Greyhound. No wonder she can run.

Wayward dog #1 - Stella

This is Stella. She was the first wayward dog that I chased down (and reunited with her owners) this summer. It was an unbearably hot morning, and as I stepped out onto my back porch I caught sight of a brindle blur loping down the jogging trail across the street. I darted.

Once I hit the road, I realized a bicyclist was following the dog. "Oh! She's yours?" I shouted sheepishly. "No," the woman replied. "I just can't catch her."

So I tried.

The dog chase was pretty typical: I darted one way; the dog darted another. She'd whiz by me, and my fingers would just graze her shoulder. This went on for three or four minutes. Then, she ran to our front door and cast a pleading eye back at me. I charged! Scared, the dog dashed off again, but just to the edge of the yard.

It was 90 degrees. Her tongue was practically dragging on the ground. I tricked her into my possession with a dish of water.

Fortunately, Stella's owners are responsible enough to tag their dog. Name, phone number, address, expired rabies license. It's all there. When I couldn't reach them on the phone, Stella and I hoofed it to the address (only about six blocks from my house). As I returned her, I sorta got the vibe that she runs off all the time.

So, I wasn't too surprised this morning when I glimpsed a familar figure soliciting two obviously disinterested joggers on the trail for a play session. Unlike the bicyclist from before, these ladies didn't even feign concern over what was obviously somebody's lost pet. This time, I grabbed Zach's dogcatching tool -- our golden retriever Luke -- and dashed down the trail. Stella greeted us like old friends.