It’s been a tumultuous few days here chez Derb.
Last Thursday around 1 p.m., I was walking my dog in a nearby suburban street — not my street, and not one where I really know anybody. Toby is a Jack Russell, 18 lbs soaking wet, a lively but good-natured and affectionate dog. I had him on a leash, of course — we have leash laws in our town.
Suddenly, from a neighboring yard, two damn great dogs bounded out, unleashed, into the public roadway and attacked Toby. One of them was a German Shepherd, the other a similar big breed that I don’t know. Toby fought back as best he could while I lashed out at the filthy curs with my booted feet.
The owner came out into the roadway and called the dogs off. He was a youngish guy, unkempt and unshaven at 1 p.m. on a Thursday, long straggly hair. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “I hope your dog’s not hurt.” I looked at Toby, who was just standing there. He seemed okay. I told the fellow he should keep his dogs leashed, and then we continued our walk.
Fifty yards on, I noticed Toby was licking his left foreleg a lot. I knelt down to take a look. There was a huge gash in his side. The skin and fur had folded over it somehow so it wasn’t easily visible, but blood from it was running down Toby’s leg.
I picked Toby up and ran home with him, pasuing on the way to show the owner of the two big dogs what his mastiffs had done, and to hurl imprecations at him and them. He was apologetic.
Once home, I threw Toby in the car and drove him to our vet. The vet said he had to operate and would call me later. I went home and called the police. They said it wasn’t really police business, but took a report and gave me a number. I called Town Hall, who put me through to Animal Control. They were sympathetic and helpful, told me to go to the county court house and file a Dangerous Dog Complaint. I did so. The court lady was deeply un-helpful.
She: “You say here there were two dogs who attacked yours.”
Me: “Yes.”
She: “Well then, you must fill out two forms, one for each dog.”
Me: “All right. Give me another form.”
She: “And you must give the breed and name of each dog.”
Me: “You mean the name of the owner? It’s right there.” [Pointing to the form I'd filled out.]
She: “No, the names of the dogs.”
Me: “How am I supposed to know that? These people are strangers to me.”
She: “We can’t take action unless we know the dogs’ names.”
Me: “So let me get this right. I go to this guy’s house — this irresponsible lawless hippie — and ring the bell, and say: ‘Excuse me, would you mind telling me the names of your dogs so I can fill out court papers to have them impounded?’ Oh, that’ll work.”
She [beginning to exhibit major attitude]: “These papers go to a judge. He’ll want everything done properly.”
Of course he will. Meanwhile the Hounds of the Baskervilles are terrorizing my neighborhood while I, through no fault of my own, am up to $989.10 in vet fees (here and here) and counting. For a look at what this unspeakable antisocial scofflaw let his slavering beasts do to my good-natured little pooch, see here.
My town’s Animal Control people are doing something or other — I won’t find out what until tomorrow, when the right guy is in the office. Suffolk County court system seems determined to do nothing, unless I can supply the precise number of hairs on the disease-manged hides of these snarling curs. There remain my costs, for which I shall approach the unwashed, unemployable offender in a civil manner; then, if there is no result, shall apply to Small Claims Court.
Friends tell me my prospects for getting my money back are vanishingly small. The damned hippie will lie, of course. To paraphrase Tom Sawyer in a slightly different context: I never see a hippie that wouldn’t lie. Still, I shall pursue the matter doggedly (Ha!), taking Fred Goldman as my model. It’s the least I can do for poor Toby. (Who is convalescing.)
The mills of Derb grind slow, but they grind exceeding small. No justice, no peace!
