Missoula Notebook
Tending My Own Garden, Chasing Other People’s Chihuahuas
By Sutton Stokes, 5-10-08
It’s almost like spring these days, and the sunlight and relative warmth have been a boon for green things, such as those eking out an existence in the neglected flower beds around my new house.
For example, I recently realized that I have tulip plants, when two of them produced red, teacup-sized blooms.
I apparently missed my chance to pull up my dandelions before they fertilized, so those are everywhere.
And there is a bumper crop of leafy spurge, an invasive species first pointed out to me last Sunday by a neighbor from down the street.
“See?” she said, snapping a stem and pointing to the runny, milky white substance that dripped out. “There are a lot of plants that look like this, but you can identify it by this toxic latex sap.”
Another neighbor was out working in her garden, and the warm afternoon sun beating down on all of us felt good on my aching muscles. I was on my way into the house from my car, my arms full of a pack and other gear from a day hike I’d just taken along Bass Creek in the Bitterroot.
The hike had been a strenuous one, because I failed to heed my guide book’s advice that the trail’s “best months” are July through September. A several-foot layer of crusty, iced-over snow covered most of the trail and made for tough going, although — in telling my neighbor about this — at least I learned the descriptive term for hiking in the kind of conditions where, for each seven or so normal steps you take on top of the ice, there is inevitably a step on which you crash through the ice and fill your boot with snow, i.e., “postholing.”
But a bad day in the woods still beats a good day mowing the grass, which had been the other possible activity I’d had in mind for the weekend. The recent warmth and sunlight has been good for the grass, too, obviously, and the yard is starting to take on a meadow-like aspect. So last Saturday I set out with good intentions and a hardware-store shopping list, intending to buy a manual mower and an edge trimmer.
First, though, I stopped by Brady’s to stock up on some hiking supplies, and before I knew it I’d not only burned through the daily spending limit my bank imposes on its check cards and but was also late to meet some friends for the Garden City Brew Fest.
The lawn would just have to wait, I decided, although this decision has caused me considerable psychic anguish all week. As it turns out, I don’t like being the guy with the crappiest-looking yard on the block. This despite the fact that I despise “lawns” and always swore I would allow any yards I’m responsible for to take on a more natural look.
Now that I actually have a yard with lawn potential, though, I’m worried that people will think I’m lazy and slovenly if I just let it grow. Like washing your car and voting, mowing your lawn may be a relatively pointless activity, but at least it advertises to people that you pay attention to the kinds of things that make for good neighbors, which is to say — to adapt Frost — you know to stay on your side of the fence.
Sometimes you have to get involved, though.
Just before running into my neighbor, I had been driving back into town after my hike, headed north on Brooks, when I noticed a disruption in the traffic ahead. Cars in all four north- and southbound lanes were slowing and stopping. People were leaning from their car windows, gesturing and pointing, and one or two actually opened doors and climbed out onto the street.
Then a chihuahua stepped into view from in front of the car ahead of me. The little brown and black dog trotted the last few feet across the street and hopped the curb into the big grassy area in front of the Missoula Credit Union branch. A man stood in the middle of Brooks, in the turning lane, calling to the dog.
Finding myself next to a driveway that would allow me to pull around to the far side of the grassy area, I turned in to see if I could head the dog off. By this time the pursuing man had reached the grass as well. The dog was in no mood for strange humans, however, and didn’t let either of us approach any closer than about 30 feet before doubling back to Brooks, where he began trotting along the shoulder, northbound.
Without ever really deciding to, I ended up following the chihuahua around for the next half hour, up and down Brooks and through the side streets between Brooks and Southgate Mall. Whenever I lost sight of the dog, I had only to look for the attention he attracted. Out on Brooks, traffic stoppages like the one I had first noticed occurred whenever he wandered into the travel lanes. On the side streets, which don’t see a lot of pedestrian use in that area, I would inevitably spot a party of dog pursuers on foot, squinting into the sun as they tried to keep the tiny animal in sight.
Eventually I followed the dog down a dead-end street near the back of Southgate Mall. Another car was in pursuit as well, driven by a man who pantomimed to me that he was going to try to tempt the dog with a pizza he had in his car with him. (Why not? I had tried throwing trail mix at the dog earlier.) We both left our cars and, for a minute or two, had the dog cornered in a yard that was fenced on three sides (and recently mowed, I noticed), but he out-maneuvered us and ran into the street again.
The dog passed us within a dozen or so feet, just out of diving range. Without discussing it, the man and I were both suddenly sprinting after him. I remember thinking the thing can’t run forever, but then, in my heavy hiking boots and with body aching from five hours of postholing along Bass Creek, neither could I. The pizza man and I held the distance fairly close for perhaps the first 20 seconds or so, but the dog had more endurance and gradually pulled away.
The last I saw of the chihuahua, he was bounding across the empty field next to Bob Ward’s, headed for the train tracks. There was no quick way to drive after him, so I gave up and drove slowly home with the windows open, the warm wind beating against me, my blood still pounding in my ears, my lungs feeling torn and ragged.
If that was your dog, neighbor, I’m sorry we couldn’t catch him. I hope he got home safely, and that the whole family is enjoying this wonderful warm Montana weather together.
For more like this, read the rest of the Missoula Notebook.
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Comments
No, seriously, do tell. I will say that in that half hour's pursuit, I saw a LOT of different methods attempted by a lot of different people.
In retrospect, it seems pretty obvious that the best thing would have been if everyone had just ignored the dog and let just one person follow it around. But of course all the people who saw the dog thought they were the first ones to try and help. That dog just wasn't interested in people...