The Downside Of Those Adorable Westies: I Found Out The Hard Way

Occasionally I will see a doggy running to beat hell and its joyous expression will remind me of Hannah’s face (of Sam and Hannah; the adorable but feisty White Highland Westies I once chaperoned around the greater Berkeley/Oakland Hills for quite a few months).

The few times Hannah was able to break free or wriggle from her leash, BOOM! – and a-Fuuuuuume! She was GONE, just like that…Hammacher Schlemmer Private Reserve Edition leash clanging down the sidewalk behind her. She’d have a BIG old smile on her face for me just as she launched off and then nothin’ but Westie Butt for me in the horizon after that.

“Crap.” I was given to say to myself.

Looking down at my feet, I would see old faithful, loyal, stalwart Sam, staring up at me and panting with a still hopeful yet clueless smile on his face as if to say,

“Welp, that’s that. She’s gone. So, what’s next, Captain Food Dispenser?”

After about a half hour or so of walking throughout the greater Kensington area, talking to every neighbor we would come across and looking in every imaginable alleyway or garden for the little fur-covered escapee, Sam’s usual insouciant joy would begin to diminish, and his demeanor would start to reflect my own.

“Great.” His eyebrows seemed to say. “So instead of being inside romping and playing where it’s warm and nearest the food, this is what we’re going to do for the rest of the night?”

I would look him in his big brown eyes and nod regrettably in mutual resignation and disappointment. We would both sigh and groan, each secretly cursing Hannah under our breath.

Sometimes hours would go by, as we lurched through the shadows, dodging deer and creepy gnome statues in perfectly manicured lawns. We’d crouch around hedges and magnificent water fountain installations and peek through gazebos.

I would whisper Hannah’s name as loud as I dared, all the while praying that no one would shoot at Sam or me or call the police. thinking I was some new horrible strain of burglar who has a fluffy (albeit cranky) Westie as an accomplice.

I would roam the gated community with flashlight for what always seemed like forever, calling, “Hannah! Hannah Sweetie!” And then sometimes, “God damnit! Where the (expletive) are YOU!!?!” until I lost my voice.

Eventually, “Adventure-Seeker” Hannah would tire of whatever pomp and pageantry the sidewalks of Kensington, Oakland had to offer her after 12 midnight. Eventually, as Sam and I took a breather out on the front porch, still stressed to the hilt, we would hear a faint, and increasingly annoying sound of metal bouncing off concrete. Soon thereafter, in the middle distance, we could make out a little, white, furry puffball bouncing toward us.

It was Hannah alright. Lit intermittently by only the occasional street lamp,the canine escapist was slowly but happily jogging our way, her sterling silver leash pinging and clanging behind her. She would be panting wildly from her unknown adventures, holding with her nose high in the air. And of course, Hannah would be smiling that famous Westie smile as cute and smug as you please.

And you know, no matter how many times this happened, in the simmering summer heat or winter snow, or how many hours into the early morning she had us wait, there was never a single trace of guilt or regret to be seen across Hannah’s triumphant face.

It was in these moments, exhausted Sam and humorless me would open the screen door and watch as Hannah pranced right passed us, without any acknowledgement, into the house, ready for her evening’s bubble bath and ablutions.

Still frozen with shock and disbelief, Sam and I would mumble to ourselves in unison:

“What a bitch.”

The End