Up until last month, I’d rescued one baby, one dog, and one horse.
The baby I rescued a few summers ago when I was out for a run. The baby’s British mother was pushing him in a stroller, about to descend a hill, when a large turtle crawling in the weeds next to the sidewalk caught her attention. She stopped to admire it and, when she saw me about to jog by, called me over to join in on the admiration.
“That’s one right good lookin’ turtle, in’t, luv!? Come ‘ave a look at this turtle wiv me!”
I didn’t want to stop, because I was still kinda pissed at her over all that Revolutionary War/William and Kate wedding coverage stuff, but the turtle really was big as eff and deserved a moment’s acknowledgement.
I stopped to check it out. And to keep it one hundred, it was pretty fly. But just as I was about to (reluctantly) give her props for inviting me over, she let go of the baby’s stroller and squatted down, her hand outstretched to the turtle, a blade of grass between her fingers. She was calling to the turtle, trying to entice it to come over for a belly rub or something. Missus was too wrapped up in the turtle baiting to notice that her baby’s stroller was starting to slowly roll down the top of the hill.
I put my hand out and grabbed the stroller… that was it. I didn’t have to chase it or anything. Still, I rescued a baby. A British baby! I let go of old grudges and rescued a British baby.
The dog I rescued was a young brindle pit bull that attacked me when I was out walking Dizzy one morning. She didn’t really attack—she just ran up to us and started freaking out, jumping on me and trying to get Dizzy to play. I love Dizzy, but he’s a scaredy cat bitchass, and so he started yelping and crying and I had to pick him up, even though the pit bull wasn’t being mean at all. She was just playful and wild as shit.
We were on a super busy street, I was carrying Dizzy in my arms, and the pit bull was jumping on me, sprinting out into the road, and coming back to jump on me again. She chased us for maybe an eighth of a mile until we got back to my house. As soon as I opened the front door, she sneaked through and started running wild in the house. Our other dog, a mini schnauzer with a Napoleon complex and a stankin attitude toward spayed females, immediately started lunging and snapping at her. The pit bull’s snapping back, Dizzy’s running around yelping, my dad’s screaming to get the pit bull outside, and my mom’s trying to find an old collar that’ll fit the pit bull’s neck. Everyone’s in an uproar and the entire house reeks of buttstink and adrenaline.
Finally my mom found a collar big enough, and I leashed stranger dog up and took her outside. I walked her down to the house on the corner, where I thought I’d seen her tied up outside before. That was her home, and apparently she had slipped her collar.
The horse I rescued my junior year of high school. My friend Lacey and I were driving around in her car to kill time before basketball practice, when a big brown muscly stallion shot out of the woods and in front of the car. Lacey, without a second’s thought, gave chase.
We followed him for a few miles and eventually herded him back to his own barn. There, the horse’s toothless owner garbled something completely unintelligible, but what I imagine was something like, “Thank you, heavenly angel ladygirls, for returning my little pony boy.”
I have a decent rescue track record. Remember the baby, the dog, and the horse? So, a few weeks ago when my friend Sarah and I drove past a border collie running loose in the streets, I was down for a rescue mission. At first we saw an old scraggled mofo with a leash looking like he was walking with the dog. But when we drove past a second time and the dog nearly ran straight out and under Sarah’s car, we decided we better stop and try to help.
I got out while Sarah went to park. The second I stepped out of the car, Old Scraggly Ass handed me the leash and said, “Her name’s Riley. Will you catch her? She doesn’t have rabies or Bordetella or nothing. She don’t bite.”
I ran over to an empty parking lot and starting calling Riley’s name. While standing there, holding a leash and calling for a dog I didn’t know, I began to ask myself a few questions.
Why dafuq did Scraggle Ass Snaggle Tooth need to mention that Riley is disease-free? Is this his dog? Why is he not catching his dog? Why does a stranger need me to catch his dog?
I decided these were pretty good questions that deserved an audience bigger than just me.
Me: Excuse me, stranger/monster man. Is this your dog?
Me: Why ain’t you catching your own dog?
Scraggle: She’s… a border collie! (He holds up his hands). Border collies are… (He waves his hands around.) You know!
Within a minute or two Riley ran over to me, Scraggle yelled out for me to grab her, and I did. Then he came over to take the leash from me and the dog cowered away from him, clearly not wanting to return.
Scraggle: Thank you! She just wants to play, that all. Hey, do you… do you live in town? You down to chill?
Me: Hell no, on both accounts.
Scraggle: Oh. Oh okay. Hey, about that down-to-chill part–can I… Can I buy you lunch?
Me: Hell no, again. You’re scaring me, mister. Plus it’s 3pm and I already had lunch. Shit. You got cookies or something?
He didn’t, so I got back into Sarah’s car and we left.
Now, I can say I’ve saved one baby, two dogs, a horse, and myself because that dude was definitely a serial killer.
Lesson of this story: I AM THE GREATEST SAMARITAN OF ALL TIME SCREW ALL YALLS
Author’s note: I wasn’t sure how to end this post.