Greyhound Rescue

A point of clarification: My sister Kim is not posing with "rescued" greyhounds. These are retired greyhounds that have been adopted by my cousin Susan. They are sweet, docile and friendly dogs; even though Kim's expression might make you think otherwise.

The weather's been pleasant in Toronto these days - good summer weather, warm, but not blistering or so muggy you can't stand to be outside.

So I was enjoying my walk home from work the other afternoon. I was just past the southwest corner of Sherbourne and Gerrard when I saw fifty metres or so down the sidewalk a light-beige-coloured greyhound pelting towards me.

It had no leash, no apparent accompanying human. But that was so unthinkable I believed with every fibre of my being that this dog was not running at high speed toward a busy intersection without someone who cared about it close by.

As it sped past me, I had to wonder.

So I turned to look back at the intersection.

The dog continued to run, full speed, into the road.

At that point, as I am wont to do, I started shouting "oh my God" and ran the few steps back to the corner.

Traffic was bad that afternoon. Construction on nearby streets had squeezed six or seven times the normal number of cars onto Sherbourne. 

Just as the light was turning red for north/south traffic, one last, frazzled driver gunned his vehicle through a quick left turn, right when the dog was in the intersection.

It was a bad moment.  

By some miracle the car did not hit the dog.

By another, the greyhound stopped its merry run toward an uncertain future, turned around as the light changed and placidly walked back across the street along with a small crowd of people.

As they approached me on the corner, I interrogated each of them.  

"Is that your dog?" 

"No," they all said.

The greyhound walked almost at heel with a denizen of the neighbourhood, a man with bags of picked bottles hanging from his arms.

I asked him if the dog were his. He said "no," too.

The dog was unaccompanied and needed help. I grabbed it by its collar.

I checked for tags. There were none. As I resumed my walk home, with the dog, the small plans forming in my head were that I'd call the Humane Society and the City Animal Control office to see if anyone had reported a lost greyhound. 

The thought also occurred that this might be the way to get a dog for Bruce in his retirement.

I was twenty metres or so south of the intersection when a man in a white SUV nestled in the unmoving grip of northbound traffic called to me. He said he'd seen the dog escape from the yard of a house about halfway down the block. 

I thanked him. His helpful tip reminded me that I had seen the dog before. It lived in one of the renovated Victorian houses just north of my townhouse. So that would be the first place I'd look for the dog's owner.

At that moment, I could see a young woman step onto the sidewalk just about where the dog's house was. She was obviously agitated, looking from side to side frantically, her phone in her right hand.

She saw me and the dog. I waved slightly at her and she came running toward us. 

I was happy to be party to the young woman's relief and give her back her dog. But I could not resist telling her how narrowly the worst had been avoided.

"He was almost hit by a car," I said over her many thank you's, "you have to be more careful." 

That satisfied me, but not the guy with the bags of bottles. He was right there and gave her a long lecture about the responsibilities of dog ownership and watching out for your pets. 

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen