Dog Day Surprise

By Janet Hartman

If you can look at a dog and not feel vicarious excitement and affection, you must be a cat.

~Author Unknown

With just fifteen shopping days left, the department store's Christmas Wonderland was in full swing with Santa, two elves, and a photographer. Two days during the season were set aside as "Bring Your Pet to See Santa" time, one day exclusively for cats, the other for dogs.

On "dog day," I brought my freshly groomed West Highland Terrier, Skipper, and Portuguese Water Dog, Max, for their annual visit. We joined the other dogs and owners waiting in line and watched Santa give each dog a treat as he greeted them.

When it was their turn, Skipper and Max tugged at their leashes to reach him. Santa handed each one a biscuit and called him by name. Skipper wolfed down his treat, jumped in Santa's lap and sniffed his beard.

"Well, hello Skipper!" Santa said with a laugh. "Have you been a good dog?"

Skipper planted a kiss on Santa's nose.

"I'll take that as a 'yes,'" said Santa. He reached down and scratched Max's ear. "And what about you?"

Max licked his hand.

"Well, my two little angels, it's time for a picture." With Skipper under his right arm and Max by his side, Santa posed for the camera. Just as the photographer snapped the photo, the dog at the end of the line barked an alert. Skipper and Max snapped to attention.

I followed their gaze and saw a woman cradling a cat in her arms. She must have confused the dates. When the frightened cat wriggled out of its owner's arms and ran for cover, Skipper and Max charged toward the enemy.

"Grab the leashes!" Santa shouted. The elves and I lunged, but the dogs were too quick. Working as a team, Skipper and Max each took off in a different direction as the cat dodged through clothing racks and between counters.

"Skipper! Max!" I called.

"Sophie!" yelled the cat owner.

The fugitives ignored our calls. The dogs still in line jumped and barked in chorus as if cheering on Skipper and Max, drowning out the store's Christmas music. A rack of shirts tumbled to the floor.

"Doggie! Doggie!" shouted one grinning little girl who reached out her hand as Skipper raced by.

I ran after Max, who continued the first floor patrol while an elf chased Skipper who soon bounded up the down escalator. The moving steps were no match for a Westie in pursuit. When Skipper reached the second floor, the elf was out of breath at the bottom, unable to keep up.

Customers and clerks on the first floor shouted, "They're over here!" When I dodged shoppers and clerks staring at a disheveled shoe display, I knew I was on the right path. Max's throaty barks, now in rapid succession like rifle fire, told me the cat was cornered. Looking in the direction of the barks, I saw a cat sitting amidst a rainbow of sweaters on a high shelf. Max jumped, straining to reach her, ignoring the sweaters his scraping paws pulled off the lower shelves and onto the floor. Sophie hissed at both of us when I grabbed Max's leash and escorted him outside to the car. One dog secured, one more to go.

When I returned to the store to search for Skipper, I heard the following announcement: "Will the owner of a small white dog please come to the hair salon on the second floor?" I hustled as fast as I could through the holiday crowd, ignoring the feline perpetrator being carried out by its owner.

As I approached the salon, I heard one stylist say, "What a cute little dog."

"Who does your fur?" asked another stylist as she picked up Skipper and admired his coiffure. Skipper leaned his head back and grinned, soaking up the adoration.

When I retrieved Skipper, a stern-faced manager approached and motioned me aside. Our conversation was brief. Although any jury of dog owners would clearly find the cat to be the guilty party, the manager's unjust verdict was final: Skipper and Max were not to set paws in the store again.

http://www.chickensoup.com