Saturday morning I got up bright eyed and bushy tailed. Super bushy. I had an appointment at 9am to address beforementioned bush so I was scrambling around to feed and poop dogs, make sure I remembered socks under my shoes, you know, morning things. I opened the front window shutters and was about to shuffle off when Brick sounded the alarm. I looked out and saw a tan colored pitbull taking a leisurely stroll down the street. She was about one house length away from the… I really don’t know how else to tell you people other than how we know it in the immediate neighborhood, it’s reckoned as “the meth house.” No, I do not know what goes on behind closed doors, but I can tell you it is fact that the local SWAT team makes an appearance at least twice a year. Lesser invasions of only a dozen police cars are more frequent but I’ve really lost count at this point. The nomenclature is not only honest, I could have dressed it up for public but, I want you to get “”the vibe.””

You vibin’? Good.

Who knows what I was doing, probably filling waters, putting out peanuts and counting crows. For an instant I had thought to text boyfriend to warn him to mind his ankles as the meth house pit has a history of bites (yes, multiple) but, truthfully, I forgot until he walked in. And he walked in with bagel sammies from Oakleaf Donuts so I forgot to the point of not remembering until Brick once again sounded off.

I heard his very angry bark and looked over to see him completely bristled. I jumped up from the table with a bite of eggy-cheesy gooey bagel packed in my cheek like a chipmunk planning to take a nap the length of winter and I saw her. The unfortunate neighbor of the meth house walking her Shiba from the left side of the corner with the pit approaching from the right side of the corner. Both unaware of the other – like a cartoon!

Admittedly I did not bear witness to the event but through neighborhood gossip I had heard that the meth house pit had previously attacked the Shibu. The same grist thread milled that she elected not to make a report. Understandable. Frustrating, as she was number three, but understandable. I looked at the clock, I needed to be in the car in ten minutes! I looked out the window – the distance between the leash and unleashed was quickly smallering. I don’t know what I thought I was going to do, thinking’s never been my thing, but I hit the button to the garage door and just ran out front.

The woman had picked up the Shiba and was holding her while the curious pit circled at her feet. From my perspective, there was nothing violent happening – no body language indicating that could change so I just observed. The woman looked at me and – honestly, I should have spit the bagel out because much like a cow on its third stomach, I was still chewing! All I could manage was a gesture of thumb’s up, that she was somehow supposed to interpret as “are you ok?” Realizing Ms. Manners would have me in the stocks, I chewed faster as I slowly walked towards them and managed to actually use intelligible words to inquire as to whether she felt safe – after all, the rumors have me believing this pit is a violent killing machine. She shrugged and the pit turned to see what was making noise.

She took one look at me and dear god – her whole being lit up. Her face, her ears her body! She was trying to walk toward me but her tail was wagging so hard it was throwing her off balance and the approach was more akin to a drunken monkey after 3 hours in NASA’s Orbiter! Oh no, she’s not gonna fool me, I’ve heard all about her! I bark at her to go home! While standing she tries to show me her belly. I want to pet it. I want to scratch the chin just under that smiling face – but I know she will take my fingers as souvenirs! “Go home, little piggy!” I order and I start walking towards the meth house. Obviously she’s a pleaser because she trots right along side me, so happy to have a new best friend.

What’s her trigger, I wonder? There is no way this dog is a biter. Unless she’s schizophrenic? I continue on in the breeze of her blur of a tail and I start thinking of what would cause my dogs to [hypothetically] bite. Resources. Property. Oh god help me, I’m walking on to her property. This is it. She’s gonna freak out because I’m trespassing and she is going to eat my face! The girl is never gonna wanna do my hair if I don’t even have a face! This is all going to end so badly! For no reason I look down at her beautiful face and I very sternly tell her again “NO! you go home!” She continues to wag. I reach the house and can see from the driveway that the gate is ajar.

Now, when one sees a lose dog roaming about the streets, said dog really only roaming within 500 feet in any direction of one particular house, said house having a gate open, one could reasonably assume that the gate had been left open and roaming dog belongs on the other side of that gate, closed. Yes? I thought so. I told little piggy to go on and without hesitation she troddled into the backyard and I quickly slammed the gate behind her, making sure I heard the latch click into place.

But what if she doesn’t live here? Crap.

Boyfriend peers over the gate and says “uh, there’s a pit back there.” Well yes of course there is, I just put it there! “I mean, a second one,” he adds. Crap.

I go to the door and ring the bell. I hear a complete melee of dogs on the other side of the door but no human. I glance down at my watch. I have 6 minutes to get to the salon. I ring the doorbell again. More of the same. The steel security door has a clever hole cut, bent and twisted in the center so I carefully stick my hand through and bang on the door. My brain tells me that I used a little too much knuckle, they’re never going to open the door now. I look to boyfriend and shrug. I didn’t have anymore time for this, or the remainder of my bagel.

Several hours – and ten pounds of hair – later boyfriend tells me that he heard a commotion, sounded like maybe someone hitting the fence and yelling “Get your dog” with lots of swears. So… I may, or may not, have put the pit in the wrong open gate. Should you, or someone you know, have a missing piggy, I might know where she’s at.