Tails-a-waggin'

I was out walking Sarah this afternoon, when I saw a woman in our apartment building's parking lot. She had that eyes-darting, head-turning set of movements that let you know she's looking for something.

"Have you seen dog?" Her voice was accented. Probably Russian, but since the breakup of the old Soviet Union, who can say for sure? Eastern European and Slavic, anyway.

"Hm. Largish, German Shepard? Alsatian?"

"Yes!"

I'd seen this dog loose before, and been somewhat miffed. Part of the lease here is that dogs should always be leashed -- or else I'd risk Sarah on the loose, too, sometimes.

"No. I've seen him before, but not today."

"Oh! He's so big, he sees a bird or squirrel, and just runs out of my hands. This time, I fell down in mud!" She gestures broadly at her pants, which are indeed smudged. It's probably also worth mentioning at this point that while she looks 20s or 30s and vigorous, she's also stick-thin in that Russian way one sometimes sees in models. Not much oomph, if not exactly fragile.

She gave a perplexed and disgusted noise, and went down one of the corridors of our apartments.

As I'm walking Sarah back, I see him. Big as life, though a little bit shaggier than. He starts heading towards us inquisitively, but Sarah is dog-aggressive, and I just don't want to chance it. I shoo him away.

I put Sarah back in our apartment, and headed back outside. There's the dog, trailing his leash behind him.

It's soaked.

In what I think is a fairly friendly way, I move toward him him, but he starts off just a bit. I get down on a knee, and hold out my hand for him to sniff. He does, and I pick up his leash -- which is almost chewed through in a number of places, nylon webbing or not. I feel around his collar, hoping for some tags, to get his name. No luck.

I stand up, and start walking him. It's almost straight out of Cesar Milan and The Dog Whisperer -- I keep him at a pace just behind my left knee. I walk him up to the corridor I saw the woman go into, and call out, "Hello? I have your dog..."

Nothing.

Those corridors have four doors each, and there's an upstairs and a downstairs. I look down at the dog. "OK, which one?" He kind of leans and sits into the frame of one of the doors, wagging his tail.

I knock.

"Oh, you found him! Thank you so much!" She looks down at the dog. "You were much better with him than with me."

"Well, I wanted to get everything straightened out. I know how frantic I'd be if my dog got loose like that. My name's Hal."

"Hello, I'm Vanessa." With the accent, it came out as, "Vanyessa," almost.

"And this is?" As we're both petting him, and he's fairly happy.

"This is Grendel."

"Ah. Like in Beowulf."

She paused. "Yes. You've read this book?" She sounded surprised and dubious. One of the mixed blessings of being an American is, if you show any hint of reading or knowledge of the outside world at all, you've already exceeded the expectations of those born elsewhere.

"Long ago, in college. Well, you have been a little monster today, haven't you, Grendel?"

He wagged.

We said goodbye, and that was that. Still, more of a neighborly interaction than I've had for quite a while, and I think definitely a Good Deed for the Day.