Every day, on my lunch break, I take Creo, my dachshund-corgi-terrier, for a walk at the same park. I swear she can tell time. She starts staring at me around noon. Last week, after almost two hours of dog sighing and groaning, I put her on her leash. When we got to the park, a giant dog was running loose while its owner sat inside his truck. Now, this is not a dog park. Signs clearly state that dogs must be on a leash. If the man’s dog had been a Chihuahua, I may have braved getting out of the car with my mini-tri-breed. Instead, I rolled down my window and waited for a chance to talk to him. When he got out of the car I said, “You know, I’d really like to take my dog for a walk, but I can’t when your dog is running loose.”
“Why?” he asked. “Are you afraid your dog will bite my dog?”
“I don’t know your dog. I don’t feel comfortable letting mine out when yours is loose.”
He glared at me. “Then go somewhere else.”
I started the car and turned it right back off. “What did you say?” I wanted to pull my super hero suit out of the trunk and teach him some manners.
“Go somewhere else,” he repeated.
Shaking my head I started the car again, backed out of my space, and pulled in behind his truck. “There’s a leash law,” I told him as I calmly copied down his tag number. The note with that information is still sitting next to my computer.
He knew I couldn’t make him do the right thing.
I knew I couldn’t make him want to do the right thing.
I took Creo somewhere else.
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