Another Inmate

Dad here; I was beginning to think that I had lost my mojo. It’s almost like I can’t function unless there’s a windmill waving it’s arms at me and action, warranted or not, must be taken. It’s been awhile since in dog in distress has crossed my path, the last being Mr Stubb; and he disappeared a few weeks ago. It wasn’t totally surprising, as that’s kind of how he showed up, almost as much of a test for us as a sanctuary for him. How would we respond to a obvious veteran of a thousand fights, battle scarred and scary looking; run him off or take him in? I guess we passed the test, as after a few months and a harvesting of the bojangles, he evidently returned to whence he came.
Then tonight I was riding my bike down at the Arkansas River Trail; I was about ten miles into the ride when I spotted a four legged rag mop hobbling across a opening in the trees. I called him and he was having none of it; besides if I could catch him, what was I to do with him? I’m on a bicycle, for crying out loud, and a long way from the car!
Then I remembered Stevie Mae, and the old Finnish proverb, “the humble hunter gets the bird”. This refers to hunting grouse, and how the hunters approach the tree on their knees as to not flush the prey by walking erect. Laying flat on the ground is how I ended up convincing Stevie Mae to trust me all those years ago; would it also prove effective with this hairy little goober?
I plopped my butt right down in the middle of the parking lot, and that was all it took. Here he came, carrying his left rear leg and trailing dead leaves stuck all in his fur. But they weren’t dead leaves, but masses of matted hair. And he wasn’t very respectful either, immediately taking it upon himself to gnaw all the flesh from my bones; what insolence is this? What had I done to deserve such mistreatment? Mark Twain once said “pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous and he will not bite you; this is the primary difference between a dog and a man”.
Obviously, Mr Twain has never met THIS dog.
So what to do? Too far from the car to carry him, I had to call Mom. I told her that I had encountered a little old man that needed some help and sent her my coordinates; could she bring the CRV to perform an extraction?
She and Oba were on one of their pilgrimages to the Shrine of Our Lady of the Holy Wal Marks; I thought it a bit odd that she asked me if she needed to drop Oba off at the Casa before she headed my way. What? I know that Oba doesn’t care for dogs, but I figured she needed to suck it up this once and take one for the team. The problem was Mom thought that I meant an actual old man, as in a homeless person. When she rolled up on me thirty minutes later and saw that it was a dog and not a Silver Alert in progress, I could literally feel her eyes rolling up into her scalp like the apples on a one armed bandit.
So, now the goober is cooling his hairy heels with the rest of the inmates out in the Cave Canem. Underneath that matted mass of fur is a skinny body, and obviously there’s an issue with his left rear leg. He’s not as old as I thought, maybe just around a year or so, judging by the size his clementines. We’ll sort these and other issues out later, but for now, we’re just going to follow the front wheel to see where the road takes us.
He looks like a McDuff to me…