I heard a car honk, which is unusual for a neighborhood more inclined to gunshots and fireworks. Someone was trying to avoid a couple of dogs who were running amok on the street. The two boneheads were enjoying an escape and chasing squirrels and darting in and out of traffic from one side of the street to the other. I called them over and one of them, spotting the Kahoo, ran right through the gate into the yard. The other - the one without a collar - was more wary, but once he got close enough to smell the jerky, he followed his nose in. A neighbor saw the commotion and came in and got the number off the one who had a tag, as he was weasely and I couldn't handle him with my arm in a sling. The address was about half a city mile away. The woman who answered the phone sounded like she had just run out of crystal meth and then found out that her bottle of Jack had dried up, too. She was disgusted and rude.
"Why anyone would take in a dog and put them in their yard, I'll never know," she said.
Forty-five minutes later, still no one to pick the dogs up. An hour passed. Finally a young neighbor of theirs arrived. Hers was the dog without the collar. She said she doesn't like to keep a collar on him and she lives with roommates who think it's funny to let him run out.
"I would just die if he ever got away," she said. "He's my whole life."
And yet, the idea of putting a collar and a tag on him seemed as likely as a trip to the moon.