Finding Nemo
He’s brown and furry and arrived at my feet attached to a leash and not a fishing pole, but I indeed found Nemo this morning.
I stepped out of my house this morning and spotted the little guy standing in the middle of the road. We stared at each other for several seconds, heads cocked at approximately the same angles of discernment – is that a friendly dog / is she a friendly human?
He took two steps toward me and stopped. I got down on a knee and he broke into a sprint toward me. He came to a halt at my feet and immediately plopped onto his back for a belly rub. I obliged.
The poor baby was dragging his leash behind him. Evidently, someone was walking the little guy when he made a break for it; or, someone tied his leash to something and it came loose; or, he clipped his own leash to his collar and used it to repel down the side of the house after cutting the window screen with a nail file cleverly baked into a doggie biscuit.
Either way, I was late to work this morning. I couldn’t just leave the little guy running around a neighborhood that sits perilously close to a busy feeder road.
I gave him a good rub down and checked his tags. Nemo. His name was Nemo. I whipped out my cell phone and called the number inscribed under his name. No answer. Well, I thought to myself, it is only 6:30 am, I’m sure his owner is asleep, unaware that Nemo is gallivanting about the neighborhood. I flipped past his rabies tag and scoped out the third tag hanging from his collar - a name of a vet clinic followed by a phone number. I dialed, and this time received a recording informing me that the office opened at 10 am. Clearly an “inside dog,” as he was well groomed, someone would be missing him soon, if they were not already. I left Nemo under the care of my mom and headed to work.
It was not until I arrived at my office that I realized what had been nagging me about those phone numbers. Something about them was familiar. I punched them into a phone location look-up web page and realized what it was - those numbers are listed in the New Orleans area. I had dialed that same area code to confirm our reservations at Emeril’s restaurant in New Orleans just this last July.
Nemo is a refugee.
I called the vet’s office again this morning and, to my surprise, got an answer. They are actually located in Metairie. I gave the girl on the other end of the line Nemo’s ID number, in the hopes that she had an alternate number, perhaps a cell phone, listed for him. No luck.
He could not have wandered off too far from home. I’m sure that someone in my neighborhood is housing some friend or relative forced to evacuate New Orleans earlier this month. My plan so far is to walk him around the neighborhood after work, in the hopes that someone will spot us and claim him. If that doesn’t work, I will begin printing up fliers – his image under the heading, “FINDING NEMO,” because I can be cheesy that way.
If we fail to find his owner, fear not, for Nemo will have a home. My mom has called me several times today commenting on what a cute little guy he is, and going on and on about what a sweet dog he is; even going so far as to say that she would keep him should no one claim him. She has already given me a shopping list of stuff to pick up for the pooch. Mom’s a sucker at heart.
I stepped out of my house this morning and spotted the little guy standing in the middle of the road. We stared at each other for several seconds, heads cocked at approximately the same angles of discernment – is that a friendly dog / is she a friendly human?
He took two steps toward me and stopped. I got down on a knee and he broke into a sprint toward me. He came to a halt at my feet and immediately plopped onto his back for a belly rub. I obliged.
The poor baby was dragging his leash behind him. Evidently, someone was walking the little guy when he made a break for it; or, someone tied his leash to something and it came loose; or, he clipped his own leash to his collar and used it to repel down the side of the house after cutting the window screen with a nail file cleverly baked into a doggie biscuit.
Either way, I was late to work this morning. I couldn’t just leave the little guy running around a neighborhood that sits perilously close to a busy feeder road.
I gave him a good rub down and checked his tags. Nemo. His name was Nemo. I whipped out my cell phone and called the number inscribed under his name. No answer. Well, I thought to myself, it is only 6:30 am, I’m sure his owner is asleep, unaware that Nemo is gallivanting about the neighborhood. I flipped past his rabies tag and scoped out the third tag hanging from his collar - a name of a vet clinic followed by a phone number. I dialed, and this time received a recording informing me that the office opened at 10 am. Clearly an “inside dog,” as he was well groomed, someone would be missing him soon, if they were not already. I left Nemo under the care of my mom and headed to work.
It was not until I arrived at my office that I realized what had been nagging me about those phone numbers. Something about them was familiar. I punched them into a phone location look-up web page and realized what it was - those numbers are listed in the New Orleans area. I had dialed that same area code to confirm our reservations at Emeril’s restaurant in New Orleans just this last July.
Nemo is a refugee.
I called the vet’s office again this morning and, to my surprise, got an answer. They are actually located in Metairie. I gave the girl on the other end of the line Nemo’s ID number, in the hopes that she had an alternate number, perhaps a cell phone, listed for him. No luck.
He could not have wandered off too far from home. I’m sure that someone in my neighborhood is housing some friend or relative forced to evacuate New Orleans earlier this month. My plan so far is to walk him around the neighborhood after work, in the hopes that someone will spot us and claim him. If that doesn’t work, I will begin printing up fliers – his image under the heading, “FINDING NEMO,” because I can be cheesy that way.
If we fail to find his owner, fear not, for Nemo will have a home. My mom has called me several times today commenting on what a cute little guy he is, and going on and on about what a sweet dog he is; even going so far as to say that she would keep him should no one claim him. She has already given me a shopping list of stuff to pick up for the pooch. Mom’s a sucker at heart.
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