Let Your Freak Flag Fly

“I failed to make the chess team because of my height.” –Woody Allen

I often call Riley the Woody Allen of dogs. He’s twitchy and nervous, and life’s big questions keep him in a state of perpetual anxiety: Are you leaving? Is it safe? Can I eat it? Honestly, if Riley had hands, he would wring them.

Inside the house, Riley’s concerns are largely confined to noise patrol. If he's awake and no one is leaving or worse yet, using the oven, he's trotting from room to room, head cocked to the side, listening intently. Possibly, he’s receiving messages from the mother ship and the reception is spotty.

Outside, however, Riley shifts it into high alert. Anything unfamiliar is a death trap until proven otherwise. Cracks in the sidewalk, manhole covers and storm drains are avoided like open portals to hell. Last week, husband and I were walking Riley downtown when he was introduced to a textured curb ramp designed to alert the visually impaired to changes in grade and other potential hazards. The humans among us walked right over it but Riley was airborne. He launched himself sideways into the street, eyes pinballing wildly in their sockets.

"Seriously?" said husband. He walked on, shaking his head and laughing, "He is such a freak." Pulling Riley to safety, I quickly covered his velvety, teddy bear ears. “Don’t talk about him like he’s not here!”

Okay, so husband's right; Riley is a little freaky. But the path to balance is long and winding, and if we're paying attention, the universe will occasionally open a window onto someone else’s freak show, just to let us know we’re not alone.

My cosmic window opened while I was stuck at the mother of all red lights. I kid you not, people grow old waiting for this light to change, and I was seriously considering a nap or having a pizza delivered when I settled for watching a young pit bull owner attempt to walk his bouncing, muscle-ball of a puppy down the street. It wasn't going well. The guy couldn’t take a step without the little dog leaping and pirouetting excitedly into the air. He could, however, take a hint. Shortening the leash, he broke into a slow run and the pup joyfully bounded forward, slobber flying this way and that. It wasn’t pretty but it was progress, and they jogged along successfully until the owner turned right onto a section of sidewalk bridging a large drainage ditch.

Inside my car, the clouds parted, and a little message fluttered down from on high. It said, “Wait for it…”.

Outside my car, the owner crossed the bridge, but the pit bull FREAKED. Claws scrabbling furiously on the concrete, he threw it into reverse and managed to wrap his leash around a telephone pole before freezing in a low crouch, eyes rolling back exorcist-like in his head.

Ah, there it is. I know that look well. Those two were in my house now. Welcome, friends. May the force be with you.

Visibly embarrassed, the owner untangled the leash and tugged. The bully wouldn’t budge. He tugged again but the dog was going nowhere. Defeated, the poor guy pushed back the hood of his sweatshirt, hitched up his pants and trudged over to where the terrified pit bull lay. He lifted the little dog gently, cradled him in his arms, and carried him across the ditch, whispering words of comfort in his furry, flattened ears. It was fabulous.

The light turned green and as I pulled away, I rolled down the window and offered a little wave-to the universe and to my fellow freak-dog lover, my comrade, my brother-in-arms. As for his pup? Let your freak flag fly, little pit bull. We all have issues.