Naming the Dog
We have a new foster family whose first husky was named Justice. Their current husky is Liberty, and when we asked them to foster a dog for us they named her Freedom. Naturally we approved this very cool name for any dog, especially a husky. But after recent events, I’m thinking it may not have been the best choice after all.
One night Freedom and Liberty escaped from their fenced yard. The foster family called me the next morning to tell me they still hadn’t found Freedom. I called the shelter and they told me that they had picked her up the night before and that the foster family could stop by and spring her from jail at their convenience.
Two nights later I wasn’t feeling too well, and took some Nyquil then went to bed around 9 o’clock. I had just settled in with my book and my dogs when the phone rang. It was one of our board members, who actually lives in another state, telling me that Freedom was out on state Road 3 here in town. The shelter emailed her because they remembered that we had an escaped husky in that general vicinity a few days earlier. At this point in time I had no idea if Freedom was on the road hurt, dead or running at large and dodging traffic.
So while our volunteer responded to the shelter’s email with my cell phone number, I got dressed, in my fur covered sweat pants and ratty baseball cap, and headed out the door to see if I could find the dog. As anybody who’s ever chased down a dog knows, there are a few necessary items you need to accomplish this feat. First, a leash. Second, something to get the dog’s attention; in this case a box of macaroni that, when shaken, would sound like dog food. Lastly, a couple of slices of cheese to use as bait. Armed with all of the necessities, I headed out the door.
Now, at this point the story could go have gone two ways; what really happened and what could have happened. What really happened: the shelter director called my cell phone as I was walking out the door and told me that the dog had been caught by her cousin and was being held at their home awaiting my arrival. I showed up ten minutes later and claimed our escapee then went home and back to bed.
The more I thought about it, the more I thought that what could have happened probably would have ended up on the 11 pm news that night:
Police arrived shortly after 10 pm to find a 4′ 10″ woman in fur covered sweatpants standing on the side of State Road 3. Hopped up on Nyquil, she was shaking a box of macaroni shouting “Freedom!!” into the night. As officers escorted her away in handcuffs she was heard to be shouting, “But I’m here to rescue Freedom!”
Since this incident, the dog is now referred to as “Freedom, the one Tina chased with macaroni.” Maybe Sasha would have been a better name after all.
