28/04/2025
THE RESCUE VOLUNTEER
I've come to the conclusion that you never really know someone...until you see their dachshund get loose at the PetSmart. .
It started with a sound, a metallic clink, a frantic scramble, a leash whipping in the wind.
Then came the cry.
From somewhere across the treats aisle, in agonizing slow motion:
"WE HAVE A RUUUUUUUUUUUUNAWAAAAY!!"
Heads whipped around.
Parents clutched their children.
No one knows their true athletic potential until they hear the words, 'Hey... isn't that your dog?'
You can train for years, lift weights, run marathons... but nothing unlocks your final form like seeing your dachshund headed for the sliding doors.
A woman dropped her tall Caramel Macchiato with extra whip, and ran.
It was her dog. Of course it was her foster dog. The same dog who, just this morning, had refused to get in the car using the ramp and had to be lifted in, now running with the speed and singular purpose of getting out of the store!
And she, who normally needed three reminders to put on the harness and not rely on just the collar, became a heat-seeking missile with a leash.
Gone was the woman who once needed encouragement in dog training class to "try to walk faster than the short-legged hot dog you are supposed to be walking.”
In her place:
Wonder Woman with her golden slip-lead.
A suburban gazelle.
A tactical unit fueled solely by sheer, primal horror.
She hurdled bags of dogfood and small children.
She slid under a sponsors banner like an action hero escaping an explosion.
She leapt the sale bin of dog beds like she'd trained her whole life for this single, stupid moment.
The dachshund zigged. She zagged.
The crowd gasped.
Someone’s Great Aunt Cheryl fainted near the cashiers.
And just when it seemed the gods of chaos would win, she launched herself, full Superman form, grabbed the leash, skidded fifteen feet across the linoleum, and stuck the landing like an Olympic gymnast with an unpaid vet bill just as the entry doors slid to a close.
Silence.
A single folding chair toppled in the breeze.
Then, scattered applause.
She stood up, hair full of hamster bedding, eyes wild, holding her dachshund like a Viking brandishing a captured enemy.
Some say she never even dusted herself off. She stood up, gave the “heel” command with authority, and walked back to her rescue group. She put the dog back in the pen with his buddies and turned to help the next person interested in adopting a dachshund with a smile on her face.
All we know is you don’t choose to be a hero.
Sometimes, your dachshund chooses for you.
