The Leash Rule

Chase is the kind of dog that needs to be on a leash. It doesn't matter that he always comes back, knocking on the front door to be let inside. The problem is that he won't come when called, unless I channel my inner Linda Blair Exorcist voice and even then, he weighs the value of freedom over the fact that he might be in trouble. I thought that I had conveyed the leash rule adequately enough to my friend, Stephen. I realized that I was wrong when I pulled up at my condo one afternoon and saw him sitting on an air conditioning unit near the entrance to the woods. Puzzled, I walked over to him and noticed a bottle of beer in one hand and the leash in the other.

"He got away and won't come back," Stephen told me, swinging his legs and taking another swig of beer. "He keeps coming to the edge of the woods to taunt me, " he insisted.

I wanted to question how that happened since it didn't appear that the collar was attached to the leash, however I held back the sarcasm and asked when he last saw Chase. Apparently the last taunting occurred less than twenty minutes before my arrival. I gingerly entered the woods in my practical 3-inch heels and walked until I reached the clearing. Stephen trailed behind me insisting that the dog was the devil and couldn't be made to do anything (unlike his perfect tiny dogs that could be carried around in a pocketbook.) As the sun shone brightly onto the wildflowers and butterflies darting around the small clearing, I called for Chase. A small white head poked out from his hiding place and he walked slowly yet deliberately toward me. His eyes fixated on Stephen and Chase froze, refusing to budge. I had to send Stephen away and Chase ran at me, full speed nearly knocking me over. Leash securely in place, we catwalked out of the woods and across the parking lot to where Stephen was waiting. I'm sure that we both had a smug look on our faces.

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