Sunday evening, I brought a bloodhound home for a sleepover. I called my husband to warn him. “There’s a guest in my truck. I almost hit a bloodhound. He doesn’t have a collar, and I don’t want anything to happen to him. He begged to get in the truck, so I let him.” Hey, it seemed logical at the time.
My long-suffering husband’s only comment was, “Why couldn’t you find a nice quiet dog, like a Basenji?” That’s code for, “Bring him home. We’ll see what we can do.” Thanks, Dear.
This was a modern rescue. No ads in the paper and no signs posted around the neighborhood. As I suspected, this obviously purebred bloodhound was chipped. First thing this morning, my vet’s receptionist ran a wand over Jake’s neck and shoulders, and it beeped. She wrote down the ID number, and I did a short search on the internet. I called an 800 number, and that was that.
My kids named the dog “Clyde,” but his name is Jake. Turns out that Jake is a newly adopted rescue, and his owners had to leave him with his grand-dog-parents for the Thanksgiving holiday. Grandma and Grandpa got their wires crossed, and Jake went on a walk-about. Clyde/Jake is a grand dog. He doesn’t know all the commands and he can’t tell you where he lives, but he’s sweet and eager to please. He also drools, but that’s just a bloodhound thing.
Jake’s chip means this story ended happily for everyone involved. The owners will get their new dog back, the dog gets to go back home, the grand-dog-parents are off the hook, and my dogs don’t have to share their space with a lovely, drool-monster bloodhound.