Riding home late from a nearby ops session, the air brisk, the hour late. Just enjoying the whir of my spokes and my easy exertion. Coming up on a cross-street, I hear someone shouting “Stop! Stop!” To my right, a half-block away, a figure running towards me. I’m just wondering what I’ve done this time when a little Scotty dog bolts through my headlight, running like Toto from the Witch of the West. The pup is going like a fuzzy torpedo south, leaving its owner far behind.
“I’ll keep him in sight,” I call out, wheeling left and walking the gears up, the cold air crackling around my windbreaker. Up ahead, pooch is still going strong but I’m gaining. Then he turns into a cul-de-sac, running into some dark shrubs. I hold in the middle of the circle, painting the brush with my forward light, staying visible so the owner can find me. Just as the guy comes panting up, his dog comes trotting out of the darkness. A car races up at that moment, his wife, and she grabs rocket-dog up.
“Thank you,” the guy tells me, pumping my hand. “He gets out of the yard and he’s gone like a shot.” I can only smile, mentioning that our old dog Arrow pulled the same stunt three times, and each time it was through the goodness of strangers we recovered him.
I like riding and I like making my riding mean something. If I’m not commuting by bike, I’m rescuing doggies. How cool is that?