Listless dog could be a steal

The Boston Herald

BEVERLY BECKHAM

She said she doesn't love him anymore.

She said, ``I don't feel the way I used to. He annoys me. He won't do what he's told. He whines all the time. And there's the issue of his hair. It's everywhere - all over the rugs, all over the furniture.''

But she still loves him, I know, because when he went missing the other night, she called in a panic and insisted, as only someone blinded by love could, that he wasn't lost but that he had been stolen.

``What do you mean he's been stolen? No one would steal Norman,'' I said, stating the obvious.

But she would have none of it. Norman was a prize. Norman was valuable. Norman, she was sure, was being held captive somewhere Norman, for the record, is a half beagle, half basset hound study in still life. He could be a bowl of fruit, he is that laid back. He is short. He is fat. And he is docile, food his only motivation for getting up on all fours. Food that is on a plate, not in a bowl, and that is someone else's, not his. No one, not even in Stephen King's messed-up things-are-never-what-they-seem Salem's Lot kind of world, would steal him. What for? There has to be a payoff to theft.

Steal Norman? Impossible.

``The hook on the leash must have unlatched. It does that sometimes. He is definitely not stolen. He just wandered off,'' I assured my daughter who, I hate to say, had kind of fantasized about this moment, not this exact moment, of course. Not Norman in the dark somewhere, but you know? Norman on sabbatical. Norman someone else's problem for a while.

``Norman ate my steak.'' ``Norman ate my pizza.'' ``Norman can't be trusted.'' ``Norman had an accident.'' Because there are times when a perfectly reasonable person wishes a little unreasonably that her dog would, well, disappear for a while.

But glance outside on a lovely August night and find empty space where that dog should be, find Norman not there on the end of his leash, and he is suddenly the best and most beloved dog ever. Norman, Norman, my love.

Before she called me, my daughter phoned the police, the business line this time, not like a few years ago when Norman ran away (ambled, really) and she dialed 911. This time she was more in control. This time she was semi-reasonable. This time she identified herself before she reported that her dog had been abducted and was probably right-this- minute being used as bait for pit bulls.

The police, to their credit, took Norman's description and asked how much the dog weighed.

``One minute he was lying in the grass. And now he's gone. I should have checked on him. People steal these dogs for medical tests, you know. They steal them and then they torture them and I can't talk anymore. I have to go find him.''

Ten minutes later she did, a few doors down in a neighbor's side yard, tail wagging, which is about as excited as Norman ever gets. ``I thought he was a statue,'' the neighbor said. ``I looked out and he was just sitting there, not moving at all.''

``I called for him,'' my daughter said the next day. ``I whistled. I yelled, `Do you want a treat?' He could hear me. He was two houses away. A normal dog would have come running. But he didn't move. No wonder I thought he was abducted. People go into back yards all the time and steal dogs. I read about it. People dognap. It's a fact. What you never read about is a dog not moving when he's called. Even when he saw me he didn't move. I had to drag him home. See what I mean? Anyone could steal him.''

Yes, anyone could steal him, But, really, who would?