Way back, in the ‘80s, everyone walked home from school; the soft-footed kids of today just don’t know…  My walk home included crossing a pretty busy street.  There was a crosswalk, and I did use it, but you really felt what that frog was going through trying to get to the other side before a log squished you! There are traffic signals there now, so another “you’re welcome,” Gen Y!

On my usual leisurely stroll home, loaded with a backpack, a purse (nobody knows the why) and whatever books I felt the need to rest on my arm, I was crossing that street and I was about six feet from the curb when I saw it; two orbs glowing from the depths of the shaded shrubbery, transfixed on my every move.  Instinctively I slowed. Carefully stepped onto the sidewalk… what else could I do? Stand in the street? I was lucky the cars slowed; I couldn’t expect them to stop.  Do I run?

I asked the eyes if they were okay… and they started to rise. My heart was pounding against my chest as this behemoth stepped out of the shadows. There we stood, almost eye to eye on the sidewalk, me and this Great Dane.

With just the slightest coaxing, he followed me home, obviously scared. Had a bit of a limp and a few scuffs. Given his location, I think he’d been hit by a car. He did have a tag and collar, but it was the ‘80s! If you found a dog, it was automatically a “stray” and every kid knew about finder’s rights.  Most parents did not, so when I called my mom at work asking if I could keep this dog that had voluntarily followed me home, she instructed me to call animal control.

Another thing most of you will never experience, calling animal control and having a live body pick up. Yeah, we had it really good.  I told the man on the phone I found this dog and he had a collar with a tag, I read off the license number on the tag, he set the phone down on his desk so both hands were free to riffle through the file cabinet to find the corresponding card. Oh yeah, I’m that old. To further blow your mind, the animal control officer read off the handwritten card that the dog’s name was “Grunt” and then gave me the owner’s phone number so that I could call them and tell them I found their dog.  I mean, I get why that is not a thing anymore, but times were different then.

So, I call.  I tell a hysterical woman I found her dog. I told her he was ok, I put him in my backyard, it was no problem for her to come in a couple hours – when she got off work – to pick him up.  She was so grateful, told me there’d be a reward and if he was any trouble, just tell him to “platz.”  Just my luck, I finally find the beast for whom my chariot will soar… and he only speaks German.

I locked my own medium sized cocker-poo in the garage, in the interest of safety of course, and proceed to sit outside annoying my new bestie; “Oh Grunt this….  Oh Grunt that…  me and my buddy Grunt…”  If I’m cringing now on the flashback, imagine how he felt?

Early evening rolls in and the woman comes to my house.  I’m smart enough to not let her in and instead walk her around to the gate.  I flip the latch, my lips are pursed about to holler for my little lederhosen and she squeals “GRANT!” as he comes running.

Grant. You know, a dignified name for a glorious beast.

In my defense, “Grunt” could have meant “dog” in German.