The Dog Watchers

By Jim Hagarty
2013

On Sunday we took our tiny dog Toby on a walking tour of the small tourists village of St. Jacobs, here in Ontario, Canada. I felt sorry for him as he seemed stressed out much of the time. Every time my wife would enter a store, the little guy would start worrying about her. He seemed to be wondering if he’d ever see her again. His head darted from left, to right to straight ahead and he kept repeating that process every few seconds.

Finally, he’d see her and a big reunion was under way. Till she entered another shop.

This went on for almost two hours and I really felt sorry for the little turkey. Imagine not being able to foresee that his owner would soon be back out to see him and to fret desperately over it.

Today I took a family member to a doctor in the city of London. I told him I would be waiting for him in the food court of the mall across the street and when his appointment was over, he would find me there. I got a slice of pizza and a pop and sat at a little table facing the front doors. My meal done, I started people watching, my favourite thing of all to do. But at some point I noticed I was no longer people watching, but watching for the return of my relative. I looked down the hall to the left, down the hall to the right, and straight ahead to the doors. And my head movements became quicker the longer I sat there.

I started to worry about whether or not there had been an accident. Had my relative been hit by a car crossing the street and the police and medical team were unable to find me? Would I ever see him again? I didn’t freak out but there was a certain urgency bordering on obsessiveness to my waiting and watching. Where the heck was he? This uncertainty was starting to do me in.

Finally, I saw him coming down the hall and I was relieved and excited.

I didn’t, however, jump up on him and lick his face, so you see, dogs and people are entirely different creatures.

Author: Jim Hagarty

I am a 72-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.