I called the cops last night to report a woman who’d left her dog inside a hot car. It was 6 p.m., 82 degrees and the windows of the car were cracked, so it could have been worse. Even so, having just stepped out of my own vehicle, I knew how hot the inside of her car must be.

 

The dog, a brown poodle, was sitting on the back dash — the hottest possible place — and barking his head off.

 

I noticed the dog as I was headed to Cartridge World in Great Falls to drop off some empty cartridges. The proprietor of the store gave me a yellow Post-it note so I could scribble a message to the dog’s owner. “It is waaaay too hot to leave a dog in this car!” I wrote. I pasted the note to the driver’s door as I passed back by. And then I noticed the line of customers inside the pizza place a couple of doors down. I walked down to the store, stuck my head inside the door and asked, loudly, “Does anyone here own the car with the dog?”

 

This is nothing new for me. Two or three times a summer I take on the role of public scold when I see a dog in a hot car. Only once have I encountered an appreciative, apologetic owner.

 

This time, a woman four back in line spoke up. Yes, she confirmed, that was her dog. “It’s too hot to leave your dog out,” I told her. “I know,” she said slowly and emphatically, widening her eyes to let me know she really did understand it could be a problem. Yet she made no move to step out of line to rescue her pooch.

 

I waited a couple of seconds and then said ”All it takes if a few minutes to overheat a dog,” which seemed to be pointing out the obvious. Again she replied: “I knowwww!”

 

The other customers were watching. The woman clearly planned to stand in line another 10 minutes or so. I glowered at her for a second or two, then threw my arms up in the air and walked out. And, on the way out of the parking lot, I called the city police. After a protracted conversation with them about the dangers of keeping dogs in hot cars, the dispatcher promised to call Animal Control.

 

I have no idea if she did so. When I drove back by the parking lot a half hour later, the car was gone.

 

What’s the moral of this story? Only that I intend to keep blowing the whistle on reckless dog owners. Even when they tell me they ”know.”

 

 

I came across Jillie’s photo on

Jillie was a Rez dog, one of scores of canines that roam the Blackfeet Reservation in a never-ending search for food and shelter. Veteran rescuer Deb Nickou spied her plopped down in the middle of a road, was struck by her vulnerable beauty and vowed to save her. By the time we hooked up with this thin and dirty creature, she’d spent a couple of months in confinement — a tough task for a border collie. She shut her eyes tightly on the ride home and wagged her tail with confusion when we beckoned her upstairs that first night. Steps were a totally alien concept.

Jillie’s brave ride to her new home

When we adopted him six years ago, Bosco the Sheltie was a bit on the wild side: he stole toast off our plates, riffled through coat pockets to pilfer treats and once even snatched part of a sandwich from a young woman who was sitting cross-legged in the grass.

 

The bowlegged, tricolored fellow with big ears had been taken in by Sheltie Rescue of Georgia after he was found wandering a street in Atlanta one snowy day. He was strongwilled and passionate: about trucks and buses (he circled with excitement when they passed) and even moreso food. But he was also loving, protective of his family and heartbreakingly sweet. He never stopped being grateful for his forever home. Long after the cheap brown fleecy bed I bought for him wore out, he refused to surrender it for a nice one. It was parked right next to our own bed, and at night he burrowed down into it with the same determination he brought to everything else.

 

Bosco was the name his foster family gave him, and it stuck. He was two years old when we got him, we think; with rescued dogs you never know for sure. In the five years we had him, he suffered a series of health problems. There were gallbladder issues. An absence of cartilage in one of his hind legs, which gave him a perpetual limp. A series of benign tumors forced the amputation of one of his toes. We fought the pain with everything from surgery to morphine drips to acupuncture. Bosco persevered as long as he could.

 

Finally, his body had had enough and when he lost his appetite, we knew it was time for that final visit to the vet. We kissed him goodbye a year ago today. Bosco was the neediest of our dogs, and maybe that’s why losing him hurt the worst. His forlorn-looking bed is still tucked in my closet, taking up way too much space. I’ll be ready to toss it someday, but not just yet.