Ivan the Weird
loose dogs and promises of blueberries
Well Adjusted is a publication that helps people be well adjusted, or at least understand that they are not well adjusted and that actually no one is. I post semi-regularly, which is to say, with no regularity or regard for any sort of predictable reading schedule. Thanks for reading.
Last week, I heard a man shouting and running down the street at 7 am. That’s Portland, baby. Except my neighborhood is usually pretty quiet. I looked out the window and saw a guy chasing his french bulldog. The dog was running in the direction of the big street, the one with the name I always say wrong, the one where cars drive murderously.
“Stop!” the man shouted. “Stop stop stop! Help!”
Eggs were cooking on the stove and bread was in the oven. The whole house could’ve burnt down. But I stepped outside. Not because the man shouted help. I’m not an altruistic guy. But I have a thing about loose dogs. If a dog is loose, it is an emergency, and we should react the same as when an ambulance drives by. Everyone in the vicinity should stop what they’re doing and act in coordination. Get the dog to a safe place.
I hold this belief because I’ve seen multiple dogs hit by cars. Each time it has felt preventable. Each time it has felt devastating.
This dog had almost made it to the big street but flipped around at the last moment. Now it was running past my fence. It saw me and stopped.
“Hey buddy,” I said in my dog voice.
The dog was skeptical. It was a tan little ball of a muscle. No collar, which upped the stakes. He approached me slowly. I tried to corral him into my driveway and corner him so he’d be easier to grab. The owner ran up, out of breath. He was slovenly, in a cartoonishly sweat-stained gray shirt. I couldn’t tell if he was hungover or had just woken up or both.
The dog approached me. Then it took off again.
It sprinted away and the man sprinted after.
“This is what I get for watering my tomatoes,” the man screamed down the street.
I thought about chasing but realized my own dog was inside with an active fire hazard. I ran back inside and turned off the stove and the oven. A minute later the guy was back out front, chasing his dog and shouting. This time I grabbed dog treats.
The frenchie stopped near the fence by my neighbor’s house, right in front of the open gate.
I tore chunks off a dog biscuit and nudged them toward the dog.
“Sit,” I said.
The dog had no interest in sitting, but it paused and considered me. The owner approached slowly.
If we could steer the dog through the gate, then we could trap the little creature in my neighbor’s yard. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. She has two dogs herself.
But the dog seemed to know it was cornered and that remaining on the street was its best shot at freedom. It lost all interest in the treat and looked up with frightened eyes. The owner stepped forward. I followed suit, giving the dog a clear path into the neighbor’s yard, but in a second, the little fella bolted, its little legs in a blurred sprint.
“He’s slippery like a rabbit!” the slovenly man said.
I looked to the man for assistance. Did he have any better ideas than endlessly chasing this dog between two major stroads?
He didn’t.
We crossed the street and the dog crossed right back. Yet again, the three of us found ourselves at an impasse in front of my neighbor’s gate.
This is about the point you, dear reader, might expect some narrative escalation. Something to surprise you. It surprised me at least:
A second escaped dog arrived.
From around the corner, a lone chihuahua approached. It considered us and beelined for the french bulldog, who sniffed it with interest. Then the chihuahua growled and the frenchie stiffened. The chihuahua nipped at the frenchie who jumped back.
“Come here!” the slovenly man said.
Yet again, his dog ran, and this time, the chihuahua chased it. The man followed in pursuit.
I stared after them. I was already running late for work. With a deep feeling of guilt, I turned around and went back in my house.
A day later, a man stood on my porch and knocked on the door. I opened it a crack. Behind me, Kona barked rabidly, feigning bloodlust.
I did not recognize the guy at all. He was red-faced and had dull eyes. His head seemed to be tilted back, so as to look down on me imperially. In other words, he stood on my porch like a slovenly emperor.
“You helped me chase my dog the other day,” he said.
“Oh yeah,” I said, entirely convinced that this was a different person.
I stepped outside and shut the door behind me. Kona kept barking.
He swayed. He seemed drunk. I noticed, with concern, his car idling in front of my house, door open.
“Man, I just wanted to say thank you,” he said.
“No worries,” I said, actively trying to identify if he was drunk.
“No! No. My dog was loose and you came outside. I appreciate that.” He was definitely drunk. “What’s your name?”
The duality of life can at times astound. A day earlier, I was trying to get a dog safely in my yard. Now I needed to figure out how to get the dog’s owner out of my yard. Midwestern manners are lodged like a shard within my soul, so asking him to get the fuck off my porch (like I wanted to do) was not a possibility.
In what was probably the worst option, I answered his question.
“Steve,” I said, hoping this would make him go away.
It did not.
He threw his hands in the air.
“Everyone in my family is named Steve!” He pointed to me. “Also everyone in my family is named Ivan!” He pointed to himself. He stood there, drunk, and said one million nonsense things. He told me about his family and he told me about how he hopes Croatia wins the World Cup and he insisted he was bringing me blueberries.
“No need,” I said.
“You helped my dog!” he said.
“Your dog is ok, right?” I asked, surprised we’d made it this far without addressing my only real concern.
“Oh totally!” he said. “Yep, got him all good.” Not a care in the world, this guy. He maintained his imperial stance, the king stopped by the peasantry’s dwellings.
I nodded. “Seriously. Please. I don’t need any blueberries.” I said this a dozen more times.
He refuted my refusal.
“I. Am… Bringing you blueberries,” he said. “Tomorrow.”
I switched my tactics.
“Ok. Great! Thanks! See you then! Take care! Bye!”
I also said this a dozen more times.
I felt an ounce of relief as he stepped beyond my gate.
“Get home safe,” I said, pointedly.
“Aw man,” he said. He muttered something about getting Nutella from the store.
“Get home safe, man,” I insisted, less kindly this time.
Then he got in his car and left.
Finally, Kona stopped barking.
So what’s the moral here? Someone smarter than me can find the nuance. But for me, it’s that people are weird and kind of awful. And dogs are great.
I’m still waiting for the blueberries. I hope they never come.
xoxo,
Steve