The Dirt Field

On Saturday evening, Bobby and I drove around with Mischa and Kobe in hopes of finding a fenced area where they could run. We knew there was a dog park in the general vicinity, but were hoping to find something closer, like an empty recreation field or an elementary school. After checking several places and finding nothing fully enclosed, we settled on a soccer field isolated by trees and some fencing.

We walked around the field for a few minutes with both dogs leashed and debated about whether to let Mischa run free. In retrospect, the whole conversation seems so stupid, but at the time, we reasoned that she would love the chance to run and would return when called because she is so eager to please. After all, how do dog owners ever get their dogs to run off leash without trying it that first time? We decided to let her go, but left her leash attached as a precaution.

She immediately took off at a fast jog, running to the far end of the field. When she squatted to poop, we relaxed for a moment, thinking that she was just doing her business before coming back. Because OBVIOUSLY she just wanted privacy. Then she glanced back at us and, without a moment of hesitation, ran off into the woods. Because OBVIOUSLY we are morons.

I was in running shoes, so I tossed Kobe’s leash to Bobby and sprinted into the woods after Mischa. She was jogging along a trail and for a moment I thought I could catch her, but then she bolted, darting through the woods and out onto a sidewalk next to a busy residential road. I panicked and sprinted down the sidewalk behind her, waving my arms wildly to alert cars to our presence.

Mischa then turned and ran into the road. I followed her, flagging down oncoming cars while she pranced down the middle of the lane with her leash dragging behind her. At that point, I considered cutting my losses and going home for a cold beer, but she suddenly turned, darted into a yard, and stopped to sniff the grass. I threw my entire body on the dangling leash and she was mine again.

The next morning, Bobby was making pancakes for breakfast while I walked to 7-Eleven. Because cooking pancakes makes the entire house reek like breakfast all day, we had opened the sliding glass door to let fresh air come in through the screen. I was walking along the bike path on my way back from 7-Eleven when I heard Bobby shouting “Mischa! Mischa!”

Suddenly Mischa appeared on the path, crashing through the trees before grinding to a halt in front of me. She froze in place as Bobby slowly approached from behind, and then tried to sprint around me as he closed in. I tackled her and dragged her home, where Bobby explained that she had been sniffing around the screen door before getting a running start from across the room and bulldozing straight through it. The screen was left flapping gently in the breeze.

I’m getting the impression that Mischa wants out. Maybe she doesn’t like the food, or maybe she wants to run wild, or maybe she is just an impetuous puppy who doesn’t know better. But I have to admit, it hurts our feelings a bit that the dog we rescued can’t seem to wait to get away from us.

The thing Mischa doesn’t realize is that she has only been with us for a little over a week. If Kobe were to leap off a cliff onto jagged rocks covered in burning glass, I would go after him without hesitation. He’s my buddy, my snugglumps, the dog I have loved for over five years. I’ve touched his poop with my bare hands and tattooed his name on the inside of my arm. But Mischa’s only claim to my heart is that she wags her tail a lot and that she required a $200 donation to adopt. That doesn’t buy a leap off a cliff; hell, that hardly buys a leap off the curb. In other words, the next time she runs, I hope she packed well for the trip.