As I write this, my right leg is stretched out at a crooked angle and resting in a butterfly chair, lightly surrounded by an inflatable velcro boot. I’ve loosened the boot to make room for ice.

 

I sprained my ankle at the Dog Park in Great Falls yesterday. Boy, did I sprain it! I was chatting with a fellow dog owner and not paying attention when a pack of tussling/galloping dogs slammed into me and knocked me flat. I am reasonably certain our border collie Jillie was among the troublemakers: she has a habit of dashing first and looking second.

 

The first thought I had after gathering my wits was: Great. Who’s going to walk the dogs? Chachi, our husky mix, and Jillie adore their morning field trips. We stroll three miles, enough distance to sniff plenty of bushes and trees, mark territory often and check in with a dozen or so dogs along the way. It’s a mental thing as much as physical, and without it, we all suffer.

 

Naturally, my husband Steve is back East for a few days. I managed to get the dogs back in the car and drive the mile and half home using my left foot to put on the brake. Not ideal; I won’t be driving again for several days. My good friend Becky Scott escorted me to the podiatrist this morning and I’ll begin four weeks of physical therapy next Tuesday.

 

I was frantically trying to line up dog-walkers (thank you, dogsitter Beth, for coming through) when it dawned me yet again how lucky our two have it. Aside from the constant contact and affection, they get a morning walk, an evening visit to the dog park, regular visits to doggy day care and car rides galore – the kind of lives puppy mill dogs can’t begin to envision. My two can endure a couple of days of down time and still have it good.

And next time we visit the DP, I’ll be looking both ways.

 

 

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