All In A Day's Work: Helping A Man Reunite With His Lost Dog

After working at my home office for the first half of the day, I decided to go to my other office in the afternoon. No, not that other office meaning the bathroom; my other office meaning “my” table in the northeastern-most corner at the upstairs area at the Farmers Market on 3^rd and Fairfax. 

Not my work area, but the Farmers Market nonetheless...

I was out the door by 2:45, and was right on track to being at my table by 3pm sharp. I rode my bike east along 1^st Street, near the repaired potholes, past Rose’shouse, then crossed over Crescent Heights… and that’s when I saw up ahead what looked vaguely like a dog jumping out of a moving black Jeep Cherokee. I rode past the SUV, slowed to a stop, and asked a construction guy who was taking a break in his pickup truck what had just happened, since he had a clear view of everything.

“That dog’s running around,” construction guy said, twiddling his moustache.

“Is it her dog,” I asked, referring to the woman in the SUV.

“I don’t think so.”

By this point the SUV had pulled over, and the driver, a middle aged woman whose name I would soon come to know was Carolyn, was calling to the dog. Apparently, the dog hadn’t jumped out of the SUV, but it did jump up to the side of the car as it was driving by, and now the dog was running around in the neighborhood. If ever there was a situation that demanded my attention, this was clearly one of them.

I walked my bike over to the northwest corner of 1^st and Laurel where Carolyn was trying to get this little dog to sit still on the lawn. Not an easy task. The dog was one of those miniature greyhound fellas, the kind that are twig-skinny and extremely skittish. Thanks to CesarMillan, Carolyn understood the importance of exuding a sense of calmness in order to make a dog feel calm, however, it didn’t help much with this particular dog, who very well could have been on his own for days or more.

Carolyn and I tried to get the dog into a doggy-run (ironically enough) on the side of the house. I had noticed a For Rent sign on the lawn, so I assumed that the house was currently vacant. We figured that if we could keep the dog contained back there, it would be preferable to letting it run around and into the street, which it did several times. As we all know, drivers in this city tend to drive too fast and do not stop at stop signs. But the little pooch was too darn skittish, and try as we might we could not convince him to follow me through the gate to the side of the house. 

And even if we had succeeded at this, Carolyn and I wondered what would we do next. Well, dear reader, I should probably mention here that this is not the beginning of the story…

Earlier that day, while walking to the gym, I crossed over Beverly Boulevard at Crescent Heights (only a few short blocks away from where the dog was running amuck), and I happened to notice a Lost Dog sign posted on a street lamp. And don’t you know, the dog in the picture was a miniature greyhound. Holy shit. Jackpot. When I saw the sign, I had an instinct to take a picture of it, as I often do, but on this particular morning I decided to go against my own instincts… that’ll learn me.

             “I know this dog,” I said to Carolyn. “I mean, I’m pretty                   sure I saw a Lost Dog sign with his picture on it just                         earlier this morning.”

And from there we devised a plan: Carolyn would do her darndest to keep the dog on the lawn of the corner house, and I would ride my bike to the intersection of Crescent Heights and Beverly Blvd. to find the sign and call the owner. Ready, set, go! I hopped on my bike and took off. Never mind my plan to be at the Farmers Market by 3pm; I now had a new plan; a mission, if you will: to save a freakin’ (literally) dog. I  tore down the terribly uneven sidewalk along Crescent Heights on my bike. A car came flying out of an alley and nearly wrecked me. “Watch it, asshole!” And then I arrived back at the sign, and promptly called the number.

As soon as the phone started to ring, a terrible thought occurred to me: What if it wasn’t the same dog? Was I about to get the hopes up of a person who lost his dog, only for those hopes to be shattered if I was wrong? That’s what was running through my mind when the guy, Glen, answered the phone, and as such I was a bit unsure of myself as I said, “Hi, I think I may have found your dog?”

Glen’s number was a 917 area code, and when I told him where the dog was, he sounded a bit confused. I immediately made a few assumptions about Glen. He was a New York transplant, late 30s, possibly gay (something in his voice), probably came out to LA for work within that past year or two tops, and he was a bit high-strung – not unlike his dog. I asked Glen where he was coming from, and quickly rattled off specific turn-by-turn instructions on what route he should take. Ordinarily I wouldn’t insult a fellow Angelino by giving him specific driving directions, but in this case I had a feeling Glen needed them. I’m sure it sounded right out of SNL’s Californians sketch.

            “Take Santa Monica to San Vincente, San Vincente to                     Beverly Boulevard, Beverly past Crescent Heights, then                   right onto Laurel by Swingers Coffee Shop. We’re at the                 end of the block.” 

Trust me, it was absolutely the best way to go. I know this shit. But did Glen listen? Of course not. Damn New Yorkers....

            “I’ll be there in ten minutes!” Glen said.

            “Great! I’ll meet you at the house.”

And with that, I raced back to the house.

I was afraid that when I got there the dog would be long gone, along with Carolyn, but alas, Carolyn and dog, whose name was Logan I learned, were both still there. Not only that, but another woman had joined the party. She may or may not have been Carolyn’s partner. If I recall correctly, the woman’s name was Anja, with the J pronounced, like ganja. Or maybe it was Manja. Whatever. Let’s just call her Ganja. She was wearing a long, African style shirt, down to her ankles. Ganja had less patience than Carolyn and was anxious to leave. She must have been waiting in the car for the first part of the ordeal.

            “Are  you able to stay here until the dog’s owner arrives,”               Ganja asked me.

I knew what she was implying; she wanted to leave and take Carolyn with her, which I did not want to happen because it would have made my “job” of keeping the frantic dog safe much harder.

            “We’re supposed to meet someone,” added Ganja, “Right,               Carolyn?”

Carolyn agreed, but fortunately for me, I could hear in Carolyn’s voice that she was prepared to stay. I was not a fan of Ganja henceforth. Ironically, at some point Ganja was actually able to pet Logan, something neither Carolyn nor I was able to do at any point.

For the next twenty minutes or so we waited with Logan, ordering him to “sit!” and “stay!” – anything to keep him from running off – with mixed levels of success. Glen called a few more times as he was en route. As I said, he did not follow my instructions, and ended up on the wrong (north) side of Beverly Boulevard. Sigh. Logan was getting antsy. As was Ganja. Around this time, a bedraggled homeless man came down the street with his shopping cart full of stuff, and started chatting with the construction workers near where Carolyn and Ganja’s car was parked. 

SUV parked just off screen to the left...

            “Oh, shoot,” said Ganja, “I left the passenger door open…”

Meaning, she was afraid the homeless guy was going to… I don’t know what, take a shit in her car? Steal it? Who knows. But imagine Carolyn and Ganja’s surprise when I told them not to worry.

             “It’s okay,” I said, “I know that guy. He won’t do                               anything.”

And that was the truth. His name is Raul. He’s originally from Cuba, lived in Miami for awhile, then came out to LA. Supposedly has a daughter out here. He also essentially “owns” the alley behind my building, at least when it comes to the recyclables. God help the dumpster diver that tries to take “his” bottles and cans out of the bins in the alley. Don’t ask me how I know all this, although I should say that I am not one of the unfortunate dumpster divers to feel his wrath. But given how I feel about "my" table at the Farmers Market, I totally understood where he's coming from.

Glen called me again, getting closer. He asked me to stay on the phone with him until he arrived, even though it was entirely unnecessary.

             “Okay, I’m passing the coffee shop now...”
             “Great,” I said, “Just keep going to the end of the block                    and that’s where we are.”

             “I see some people…”

             “Yup, just keep on going…”

             “I don’t see a stop sign…”

             “Trust me, there is one. That’s where we are. Just keep                      going, you can’t miss us.”
              “I see some construction people…”

Uch, so unnecessary. I hate talking on the phone when there’s truly no need. I also hate unnecessary text messages, but I’ll save that for another post…

Glen finally pulled up to the house in a new compact Mercedes sports sedan, which did not surprise me in the least. He got out, opened the passenger door, called to Logan, who immediately ran over and jumped into the car. Success!

 Glen thanked me and Carolyn and Ganja. Of course, he had no idea what a major team effort it was to keep this dog safe, nor was he as overcome with joy as I anticipated a dog owner reunited with his lost dog would be, but so be it. Perhaps he was so relieved that he didn’t know how to act, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Before leaving, Carolyn said, “Have a nice life, Todd,” and I could tell from her voice that she genuinely meant it. I wished her the same, and with that Carolyn and Ganja rode off in their black Jeep Cherokee. Once the women were gone, Glen took out his wallet and asked me in a half-assed way if he could give me some money, but I refused. It crossed my mind to give Glen some friendly advice like, “Please keep a closer eye on your dog in the future,” or “consider getting a dog collar,” but who the hell am I to tell a grown man these things? I kept my comments to myself, and then we went our separate ways. In hindsight, I should have said yes to the money and given it to Raul. Oh, well…

Ironically enough, I almost got taken out by a few a-hole LA drivers on my way to the Farmers Market, just a few short blocks away. But alas, I arrived safely, and was in my seat at the northeastern-most table at the upstairs area by 3:35. As I took out my laptop and got to work only 35 minutes later than planned, I was reminded that it usually doesn’t take a whole lot of effort to do something incredibly nice for a stranger, and to do your part to make the world a better place... or at least, .00000001% closer to the world you/me/we(?) want to live in.

Thanks for reading yet another long-ass post of mine. If you don’t already have a collar (and ID chip) for your dog, please consider getting one… And have a nice life!