TheBorzoi Dog

I like to think of myself as a considerate and conscientious soul. Honest too. Painfully so, apparently, according to my then husband who often accused me of being too honest. Too honest! As though truthfulness was like a badly trained spaniel that needed some extra school time.  I, however, have never been fond of those who speak with a forked tongue, so jumping in at the deep end I was about to learn that my version of honesty occasionally needed… a restraining leash.

It was a warm summer evening in Toronto.  My husband and I had gone for dinner at one of those fashionable restaurants on Queen Street. You know the sort: waiters with ironic beards, and attitude and water bowls laid out for dogs with more social status than their owners.

We had the perfect window seat, and I sat down to happily engage in the sort of activity I excel at—watching strangers and making wildly unfounded assumptions about their personal lives. Along came a young woman with a Borzoi, the sort of long-haired aristocratic dog that spoke grace, breeding and extravagance

“look at that” I chirped knowingly, “young upwardly mobile, expensive dog, probably lives in one of these nearby condos”

No response was the surly reply from said partner.

Now, I had recently read a warning from the Toronto police that posh dogs were being “borrowed” and held for ransom, which is just a polite way of saying kidnapped. I was inwardly congratulating myself for being alert to this crime wave when—horror of horrors—the woman tied her priceless canine to a parking meter and trotted into the restaurant with her friend.

“Oh my God!” I whispered. “Did you see that?”

“Stay out of it,” muttered my husband, not even looking up from his asparagus. He has the calm, unflappable air of a man who insists on finishing his wine as all around him flee to the lifeboats

“But I’m a witness—” I began.

“Stay. Out. Of it,” he said again, in the tone of someone addressing his excitable dog.

After fifteen agonising minutes, it happened. A man ran up, fiddled with the Borzoi for a moment, and then sprinted away down the street with the dog in tow. I nearly choked on my wine.

“He’s stolen the dog!” I cried.

“Stay out of it,” hissed inspector Joe Friday

What seemed like ages but probably was only minutes later, the young woman emerged from the restaurant looking left and right, the very picture of someone who has just misplaced two feet of expensive hound.

“That’s it,” I declared, rising from my chair like Joan of Arc at the stake. “I’m telling her.”

My husband gave me a look that suggested I’d regret it, but I pressed on.

“Are you looking for your dog?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said anxiously.

“Well, I saw a man run up, untie him, and dash off down the street. Long black coat, stringy  black hair, quite dirty, looked like a vagrant.”

She looked at me coolly. “Was he wearing a red plaid scarf?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed, amazed at her psychic powers.

“That’s my husband,” she replied.

At which point, I executed the world’s fastest and most dignified retreat, shuffling back to my seat, I leaned towards my husband, cheeks burning.

“It was her husband,” I whispered.

From across the battlefield of his vegetables came the inevitable verdict:

“I told you to stay out of it.”

#embarassingmoments. #dogtheft #foolsrushin#socialblunders