Bart is a big dog. You wouldn’t notice it so much from a distance, unless you’re a smaller person, but Bart’s pretty good sized. He’s a chocolate lab, deep brown, nice coat, big head with a friendly slobbery face, deep eyes. He is eighty pounds, best guesstimate, of pure canine muscle. I mean, this dog is strong and fast.

Bart’s not my dog. He’s not even my neighbor’s dog. He’s my parents’ neighbor’s dog. He’s an outside dog (I know, that’s stupid) and he doesn’t care much for being left alone. He figures that’s his time to roam, explore, sniff out the world. I’ve captured him before, and it wasn’t easy, and he wasn’t nearly as strong back then.

I was over at my parents’ place, middle of a quiet afternoon. Dad wasn’t home. Mom was talking to a visitor, and I glanced out the kitchen window. Just in time to see Bart head-butting the fence near the top of the driveway. He gave it a few good smacks and hopped right through, and down our driveway and into the world.

There was a car in the neighbor’s driveway but no one answered the bell, so down the street I went, after Bart. With no leash, no cell phone, not even the sense God promised me long ago. He was four houses down by then, peein’ on the bushes and barking at a little girl across the street. The poor kid was petrified, standing on the sidewalk with her hands clasped under her chin … he must have looked like an arctic wolf to her. I can’t guess why he was barking at her, but she didn’t like it. He crossed to her side of the street about 40 feet from her, she crossed towards me, and I went after the dog.

Got him by the collar, a thick leather job with a buckle and two tags. I had a good grip, like a rodeo cowboy on a bucking horse, and took maybe five steps toward home before he backed up, wiggled his big head, and left me holding the collar. He took off toward the park, galloping like Seabiscuit.

My Mom offered to help. I grabbed a leash and a phone and we set off in her car. Down to the park, then up a residential street, up the busy county road, down another street … and there he was, still peeing on every other bush. I tried again with the leash, but he took off, down the county road two blocks. I got out again, and this time he thought I smelled interesting. Which was a break for me.

I managed to slip the collar over his big brown head, with a leash attached that Mom bought for Happy, our Pomeranian, for Christmas. It’s the thickest, widest leash we have, about an inch of green an white nylon, decorated with little wreaths. She has a collar to match.

Great, I now had an 80 pound retriever on a leash that belongs to an 18 pound lapdog, and I can’t pull him forward because it’ll come off over his ears again. No way to coax him into the car, which doesn’t interest him anyway. (I thought it was pretty darn nice of my Mom to offer to let me put this big slobbering dog in her Lexus.) Well, I was getting pooped already, but off we went for walkies.

The first time he decided to pull, I wasn’t ready. I didn’t expect it. Picture yourself standing on the roof of a building, holding a line connected to an anvil, which somebody kicks over the side while you’re not looking. I’m a big guy; to be sort of honest, lets say a cross between an NFL lineman and this guy. Bart almost pulled me over. He proceeded to do that, though not unexpectedly, all the friggin way home. We got there. I put him back in his yard, while Mom shoved a garbage can up against the board in the fence where he broke it.

Dad came home in a while, and we were setting out to fix the fence, when Mom asked me if I’d closed the gate at Bart’s house. It was wide open. Yes, I’d closed it. The little sweetheart head-butted it until it opened, and he was gone again. Dad and I drove his usual streets, but Bart was nowhere to be seen. He had his collar on again, and God only knows how many times he’s gotten out. I’m one of several neighbors who have been dragged home by this dog, and there’s only so much you can do. By then, his family were home, making calls, sending out searchers … again.

I’m told that two men – friends of Bart’s owner – found him down near the freeway, preparing to merge onto the northbound 101. They put him back in the yard, and wired shut the gate. I hope that helps. My Mom said they were as impressed with his strength as I was. I wonder what they’re feeding that guy.

The morals of the story, and you knew it had some:

· That dog doesn’t belong out in the yard. It’s not safe for him. He belongs in the house, where he can smell his people in the environment when they’re not home.

· Bart’s a great dog. A big, rambling, Let me after them ducks, Daddy! kind of a dog. Is a small, suburban backyard the right environment for such a dog? I don’t know.

· Bart needs to be neutered, if he isn’t. That might help calm him down a bit.

· We can’t have big dogs roaming the neighborhood, scaring little kids.

· He could’ve been killed at several points during his afternoon of running amuk.

· I could’ve been bitten, though he’s never been aggressive to me before. That’s a big mouth with lots of teeth; I can picture a big lawsuit, with lots of damages.

Keeping our pets safe and secure is serious as a heart attack. And yes, I’m aware of the irony of that remark.