Page 44 of Average Joe

Eminem spilled his guts about drug addiction while I ripped bluegrass roots from the soil. I was tugging on a pesky clump when something fuzzy touched my fingers. As the weed disappeared under the fence, I jerked back, startled, watching the earth shift under the fence line. Two tiny, fuzzy brown paws clawed at the dirt like mini excavators, de-rooting the damn weeds faster than I ever could.

I should’ve shooed the rodent away but instead sat back on my heels, enthralled with the scene. Before long, a tiny black nose appeared. Soon after, a dirty brown snout.

Tearing the buds from my ears, I watched. Waited.

Dig, dig, dig.

Huff. Huff. Huff.

The little guy was persistent, and I hadn’t the heart to scare him away. Besides, he was probably lost, and if I let him dig his way under the fence, he’d be easier to catch. He wasn’t the first stray that’d wandered onto my property, and I had the number for a local dog rescue on speed dial. He was the first, however, who’d tried to make his way into my backyard. For that alone, I’d cut the guy a break.

Dig, dig, dig.

Hug. Huff. Huff.

Come on, little guy. You can do it.

Five minutes later, a scruffy head poked through the hole.

Dig, dig, dig.

Huff. Huff. Snort.

He hadn’t noticed me yet, too focused on his task.

God, the poor thing looked ragged. Needed a good meal, no doubt.

Another few moments, and he’d pulled his body halfway through the hole.

I held back my laugh, sitting silent, waiting patiently for the creature to discover my presence. A few hard kicks and grunts and the tiny, mangy mutt sprang to all fours, shook the dirt from his fur, and smiled up at me. Yes, smiled. Tail wagging, one gnarly tooth that looked too large for his mouth stood tall amongst the others.

I hated to call a dog ugly. But the little guy was… well, ugly. Wiry black-and-brown coat, bulging eyes that didn’t seem to focus, and a tongue that lolled out the side of his mouth.

He couldn’t have been taller than eight inches or weighed more than five or six pounds.

Poor thing.

“Hey, little guy.” I slowly offered my hand for the creature to sniff.

He gave me a lick but then took to following a scent through the grass, ignoring me altogether.

A red collar adorned his neck, a small metal tag hanging from the clasp. The mini monster didn’t protest when I scooped him up to inspect the engraving for an address.

“Oh, for the love of…” I grumbled.

I knew that residence by heart.

My cheeks heated.

A loud whistle came over the fence. “Ginger.” Another whistle. “Come on, girl.”

The dog, a female apparently, wiggled in my arms, tail spinning like a propeller on a boat engine.

“Hey, girl. Where’d you go?” Joe’s voice rose an octave. “Come on,” he sang. “Breakfast is ready.”

The mutt wiggled harder, and I set her on her feet. She ran to the fence, butt shaking something fierce, that tiny tail a blur. She crouched at the hole, nose to the ground, rear in the air, and barked.

“Aw, fuck.” Joe’s voice came closer. “Shit!” He patted a hand in the hole. “What’d you do? Neighbor lady’s gonna kill me.” He whistled again. “Come on, Ginger. Come.”

---