Friday, December 29
I’m pulling into the check-out lane with my cart of groceries at Blythe’s Smart and Final store when a voice comes over the speakers, waking me from shopping-zombiness.
“Chihuahua in the store! Chihuahua in the store!”
Simultaneously a long-legged, brown chihuahua zips past the far end of an aisle. I start placing my items on the conveyor belt.
How very Blythe.
A second later here comes the renegade chihuahua!
Flying past my legs, the dog zooms to the exit doors followed by an employee (identifiable by the store’s signature red vest) in close pursuit. The man is gesturing wildly and shouting, “Get out! Get out!”
The automatic doors open and out they go.
“Does this happen often?” I ask drily, turning to the cashier.
“Yeah,” she responds as she swipes my items across the scanner. “That dog comes over here regularly and we chase him out. He lives with the people at the motel across the street.”
The customer behind me quips . . .
“Someone should direct him to the dog food aisle.”
“Mmm. Sounds like the owners of the black chihuahua running around Albertson’s parking lot the last time I was there,” I remark. “An employee told me it was from the motel.”
(Albertson’s grocery is diagonal to Smart and Final grocery. The stores triangulate with the motel.)
“Yep, that’s them,” she replies, stuffing my items in the 47th plastic bag I’ve bought from the store.
I keep forgetting to bring a bag inside. The Perfect Tow Vehicle is littered with shopping bags!
Anyway . . .
The first few times I see chihuahuas running on sidewalks, sniffing around lawns, and trotting across the streets of Blythe, I’m very concerned for them. Since then I’ve developed a respect for the roaming dogs of Blythe for their well-honed, street savvy.
I still wish they were better supervised, but such is the culture here.
These are no bumbling, scared, hungry, lost dogs with please-help-me eyes. These dogs have street cred coming out the ying-yang.
I’m not exaggerating.
For instance, one day I see a chihuahua stop at a crosswalk on the wide, five-lane boulevard that is Hobson Way. The dog waits for a pick-up to go by before stepping into the street. It holds its head high as it makes its way across, a picture of alertness and confidence.
At least it isn’t wearing earbuds and walking while texting.
~ ~ ~
The post is supposed to end here.
I’m about to type my sign-off signature — rvsue — when Roger and Reggie leap to the door, hopping, twirling, barking.
“What’s this all about?”
I open the door and here’s Skeeter! The boys spill out the door to meet their runaway friend in a tangle of joy. They frolic around our campsite.
Then Reggie decides he’s going to sniff out the camp of our other “neighbor.”
Oh, geez, I hope he doesn’t pee on the guy’s stuff . . . .
I call out, “Reggie! Reggie! Come, Reggie!”
He ignores me. Roger and Skeeter, who are watching Reggie disappear beyond the creosote bushes, turn and return to camp.
“You’re such good boys!”
Past experience tells me that if I disappear from Reggie’s view, he becomes nervous and returns.
I go inside the Best Little Trailer and shut the door behind me. A few minutes later I open the door and Reggie is back.
“Okay, guys, let’s escort Skeeter home.”
“Come along, Skeeter. I hear Del calling you.”
Our usual routine is to visit Del and his canine crew around three o’clock every afternoon. He and I agree that we have to visit every day otherwise the dogs — his and mine — will go nuts.
It’s only noon now but previously Del invited us to visit any time.
Being retired like me, he keeps his days open.
No need to call ahead.
The excited barking of happy dogs alerts him that he has visitors.
rvsue
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