I like to walk my dog, Sweetie, along the Wabash Cannonball Trail. We’re lucky to live near such a nice walking trail. It’s completely paved, so walking is easy for older adults like me. But the really great thing about it is that the trail winds through farm country. About a half mile from my house in either direction, I’m in the midst of bean fields and corn fields. Going two miles west, you’re in the middle of downtown Whitehouse very near General’s Ice Cream—for my money, the finest soft serve in the county.  Two miles in the other direction is a beautiful stand of pines. Maybe you’re like me—happily familiar with the quiet and peace that is present in such a grove. Some summer day, I intend to sneak under that particular canopy and sit for a while. I hope the farmer who owns it won’t mind.

     The red-winged black birds are in full voice right now, frequently perched high on dried pampas grass. Before they fly away, they squawk out a warning to their friends.

    There are lots of cardinals around, too. I’m always amazed by the number of distinct songs they warble. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve looked up a different bird call on the app I downloaded to my phone. Almost inevitably, it’s a Northern cardinal. Soon, my other favorites, the goldfinches, will join the menagerie.

     People make good use of the Wabash Cannonball Trail. Bike riders, joggers, roller bladers, hover boarders…you name it, you’ll see it on the trail. And dogs. Lots of dogs.

     Ninety-nine percent of the time, the dogs are on leashes. I usually steer clear of them just because Sweetie is a little unpredictable in her encounters with other dogs.  But once in a blue moon, a dog will roam free. People out here are pretty responsible about keeping their pets on a leash or in the yard, so it truly is a rarity, but today was one of those days when a free-roaming dog reminded me of things I have to be grateful for.

     Sweetie and I were about a mile from our home when we came upon a lady who appears a little older than me, riding her bike. We’ve met her many times. She always says hello, usually followed by a comment about how lovely the day is. Today, she was being circled by a long-legged black dog, who was jumping around, clearly happy to be outside. I’ve never seen this lady with a dog, but the dog stayed so close to her that I assumed it was hers. As is my usual practice, I pulled Sweetie far off to the opposite side of the trail. The dog saw us and ran right up to Sweetie. Another female—I wasn’t sure how Sweetie would respond, but she stood there calmly as the black dog sniffed her nose-to-tail.

     “This dog isn’t mine,” the lady said. “She just ran across Bucher Road and began following me.”

     I tried to get hold of the dog’s collar to see if I could find a contact number, but she was so active, I couldn’t hold her still long enough to read the tag. She began jumping on the other lady. This dog was so tall I was afraid she was going to knock the woman onto the ground. I finally got hold of the dog’s collar so my trail friend could bicycle away. I was able to see the owner’s phone number and the pup’s name. I held on long enough to memorize the number, repeating it to myself several times. Then I let go because she was just too much to handle and dialed the number. She took off running and jumping again.

     “Hello?”

     “Hi! Do you have a dog named Millie?”

     “Yes. Who’s calling please?”

     “My name’s Theresa. Listen, your dog is loose and running around on the Wabash Cannonball Trail.”

     “What? Oh my God, I don’t know how she got out of the yard.”

    “Well, she’s out here. She’s really nice—wants to play—but I’m afraid she’ll get hit on Bucher Road.”

     “I’m on my way out of the house right now. Thank you for calling!’

     I looked around, but now, Millie was nowhere in sight. Sweetie and I continued home.

     I noticed an SUV with State of Ohio plates sitting on the side of Bucher Road. Millie was headed straight for it. The man in the SUV got out and tried to catch Millie. Relief—someone else was trying to help. Though there’s not a lot of traffic on Bucher, the cars usually drive somewhat over the posted speed limit, and Millie was so impulsive that I was concerned she’d be hit. The state man tried to get Millie into his vehicle, but there was no way that was happening. Just then, I heard a voice calling.

     “Millie…Millie! Get over here right now!”

     The state man walked towards the house from which the voice was coming, and Millie followed him. The saga was coming to a safe end.  Sweetie and I kept walking. However, Millie was determined to have her day of freedom. After running around in circles in her own yard a few times, she headed right back for the trail and me. By this time, the state worker was back in his vehicle, but he continued to stay parked, so I thought between the two of us we should be able to help Millie get home.

     I heard a lawnmower start up, and at the home I now believed to be Millie’s, I saw a gentleman on a riding lawn mower, driving around his yard, calling for the dog. It seemed a strange way to try to recapture your canine, but I also noticed that the gentleman was wearing knee-high support stockings, and because his hair was completely white, I guessed he might be older, possibly less mobile than he once might’ve been.

     Millie ran right up to Sweetie and me. I grabbed her collar and began walking her across Bucher Road, Sweetie’s leash in my right hand, Millie’s collar in my left. Just as we got to the middle of Bucher, Millie leapt into the air about as high as my head (I’m nearly six feet tall), then took off running, pulling me to the ground. I had to let go, thankful no cars were coming.

     The state fellow stayed in his SUV. I am certain he must have seen me, trying to get myself untangled from Sweetie’s leash and wipe the blood off my hands. I was in a state of shock and in some minor pain, so I was a little slow to rise. The state guy never even poked his head out of the window to inquire as to whether or not I was okay. Seemed a little callous, but whatever.

     By this time, Millie was no longer around, and I assume she had been subdued by her owner. I picked up my wounded pride and my wounded self and started walking again, albeit a bit more slowly. And I admit it—I felt a little sorry for myself. Just trying to do a good deed and all…

     As I was arriving at my backyard, my phone rang. It was Millie’s owner.

     “Is this Theresa? I wanted to thank you again for letting me know about Millie. I don’t even know you, but you tried to help. I appreciate it.”

     “Did you figure out how she got loose?”

     “No, I really don’t know. I’ve got to check the latch on the gate. I just got her about six months ago. She’s two years old.”

     I laughed. “She acts like a two-year old!”

     “She’s almost too much for me to handle. I thought I might use her as an assistance dog, but I don’t know if that’s going to work.”

     “An assistance dog?”

     “Yeah. I’m legally blind, see? Schrapnel. Nam. Hey, if you’re ever walking this way again, stop by and visit. It’d be nice to have a visitor.”

     We hung up.

     I didn’t thank him for his service.

      I looked down at the road rash on my right knee and the bloody right palm I was nursing.  My right hip was complaining pretty loudly too, but it struck me that luck has smiled on me over and over during so much of my life. I’m seventy years old and in pretty good health. I’m certainly not blind or disabled in any way. I don’t have to take a shoebox full of different medicines. I’m not living in the middle of a war zone. No natural disaster has ever taken all I owned. And while I’m not wealthy, I have a roof over my head, clothes on my back, and food in the pantry. My kids, who had advantages unheard of by children in so many parts of the world, grew up to be sunshine in the lives of all who know them. I had a great job and still have a million wonderful friends.

      So what’s a little road rash?