The Night Poopsie Came to Town

None of us know when we’ll be tested in life. Some tests are big. Some are small. A test my husband Randy will never forget came on a June night, involving several confused neighbors, two police cruisers, and a Chihuahua named Poopsie.

That late afternoon I’d brought Poopsie home from the pound. Our two little boys, ages 5 and 2, were ecstatic. “We have a doggie!!” Patrick and Paul shouted, jumping up and down.

I smiled, trying to avoid my husband’s quizzical stare. I have few natural talents, but picking out quirky-looking canines is right up there. And with this dog’s large snaggle-tooth, bulging brown eyes, and wiry body, Poopsie was no exception.

What can I say? There was something sweet in his eyes. On the spot, we decided to rename him. My husband said there was no way he would have a pet named Poopsie.

My Mom and Dad were there. Things were going fine till that fateful moment someone decided to let Poopsie off his leash. Surely this animal will stay close, we thought. Quicker than you can say, “Ay! Caramba!,” Poopsie bolted up our driveway, took a left, and disappeared into the mist. The adults stood in shock. Five-year-old Patrick started crying. “My doggie hates me!”

Randy and Dad looked at each other. “I’ll get the car,” said Randy. My father sighed. “I’ll come with you.”

On the road, a kid on a bike pointed to where he’d seen a tan dog. Randy and my father parked the car. To their horror, they had to traipse through people’s properties calling “Poopsie!” Everywhere they went, someone had seen the dog go that-away. Half hour later, they came back empty-handed and disappointed. My parents left. The kids went to bed, crying.

“Let’s report this to the police,” said Randy. “You never know.” We settled in for the night, nervous, not sure if we’d see Poopsie again. That night the phone rang “A large Chihuahua’s been spotted by the Merritt Parkway,”said a police officer. “It’s your dog, you have to get him.”

The Merritt Parkway was five miles away. Once again, Randy got into his car cursing the moment he agreed to get a dog. No pooch was found.

He started heading back when a mile from our home he spotted a line of cars creeping along, trying not to hit a small tan canine trotting down the center. Randy knew this could only be one animal. Two police cars were parked on the side watching this spectacle. Randy pulled up beside them. “That’s my dog,” he said. “I’ll try and herd him home.”

With their help, Randy managed to get behind Poopsie, finding himself lead car in this odd 4 m.p.h. motorcade at 11:30 p.m. on a Friday night. Following behind were the two cruisers with swirling lights and an ever-growing line of peeved and confused motorists.

Then came the tricky part. With our street in view, Randy sped ahead, angling his car so Poopsie was forced left, down our road. When the dog came to our house, Randy again maneuvered his vehicle, coercing the animal sharp right down the driveway. A Montana cattle rancher would’ve whistled in wonder.

At last, Poopsie was corralled. The police officers pulled up behind Randy in our driveway, congratulating him for a job well done. Meanwhile Poopsie stood watching all this. Randy finally went to scoop him up when the dog bolted away, disappearing into the woods behind our house. By now, even the cops looked dejected. They showed their lights into the trees but there was no sign. “You might want to consider another pooch,” one advised, and they left.

Randy came into the house, by now exhausted. It was midnight. “You poor thing,” I said to my beleaguered husband. I had hoped we’d get lucky. All I kept hearing was Patrick’s words, “My doggie hates me.”

Half hour later Randy went to lock the back door when he noticed something small and tan sleeping on our chaise lounge. He stepped outside, not believing his eyes. Poopsie had returned. We’d gotten lucky after all.

This time my husband didn’t waste a moment. He gently picked up the animal and brought him to Patrick’s room. “Look who’s here,” he said to his sleepy five-year-old. Patrick sat up, bleary-eyed. “My doggie!” He crashed back to sleep.

I looked at Randy that night and knew my husband had passed a test. He was officially in the club of men who would do anything difficult, ridiculous, or heroic for their children.

Randy had brought home Poopsie.

 

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