“Barkley, no! No! Come here right this second!”
The woman’s strident voice cut through the ambient sound of passing cars, reaching our ears as we sat on the patio of St. Arbuck’s.
It was one of those rare Las Vegas spring mornings about which you’ve heard me speak several times before: Temperature...a balmy seventy degrees; wind...non-existent.
We only get a handful of those mornings each year so my wife and I have dedicated ourselves to a fierce pursuit of enjoying the heck out of each one that comes along.
Barkley turned out to be a yellow Labrador Retriever whose owner, a distraught woman of uncertain age, had lost her grip on the leash and was trying, with little success, to coax him away from his current quest—the tracking down of a delectable scent.
From where we sat, Barkley’s scent trail led directly away from his owner and toward a park across the street.
It was the “across the street” part that, no doubt, had the woman concerned, for it was a quite busy street.
“Barkley! Come here! Here!” she shouted.
Nothing.
Glancing at the onrushing block of cars just released from waiting at a stoplight up the road a ways, and then at her dog’s single-minded obsession with whatever he was tracking, she cupped both hands around her mouth and screamed, “Barkley! Barkley! I’m not going to call you again!”
My wife and I gave each other a wink-wink, nudge-nudge look, knowing full well that the anxious dog owner would, indeed, call him again, because that’s what parents and dog owners do.
I’m pretty sure Barkley knew it as well, for he kept on going, his trail leading him ever closer to the street.
“Barkley!” she wailed.
For reasons unknown to anyone but himself, Barkley suddenly turned and bounded back toward his owner, his doggy face bearing an expression that said, “Aw, I was only kiddin’!”
“Oh, you’re a good b...” she started to say only to watch the spirited canine scamper past her position and commence frolicking around the parking area, dragging the leash behind him.
While safe by comparison, there were still plenty of ways an untended dog could be injured...especially one as bold and full of life as Barkley.
By then she had apparently “had it,” so to speak, and did something that I still have trouble believing, and I was there to see it.
“Okay, Mister!” she said sternly. “Get over here right now. One...”
My wife looked at me in stunned disbelief. “Oh, no she didn’t.”
“I’m afraid so,” I replied.
“...two...”
Meanwhile, Barkley had found a couple of college-aged girls upon whom he was bestowing the full measure of his affection, and having it returned enthusiastically, by the way.
“This is your last chance,” the woman said as if addressing a misbehaving five year-old.
One of the girls noticed Barkley’s owner and asked brightly, “Is this your dog?”
“Yes!” the woman said sharply. “And he’s a bad boy!”
The two led Barkley in the direction of his owner growing progressively somber as it became apparent that she was, shall we say, put out.
They handed the leash over, remarking, “He’s such a beautiful dog,” at which point Barkley dropped to the ground, rolled over onto his back—legs splayed immodestly—and fixed his owner with a pair of deep, brown eyes that seemed to say, “Come on, mom, you know you love me.”
The woman held out for a good ten seconds before her resolve disintegrated under the onslaught of Barkley’s charm.
“Oh, you’re a good boy. Yes you are,” she said in that high-pitched, ridiculous falsetto vocalization known to dog lovers worldwide. Bending over to rub his belly she continued, “You just love to tease your mom, don’t you?”
The girl asked excitedly, “Can we get a picture with your dog?”
Acting as if it were a request she was used to hearing the woman said, “Oh, sure. He loves to have his picture taken.”
The girls handed the woman an iPhone and knelt on either side of Barkley, at which point he sat up, offered his right paw to be shaken and smiled for the camera.
After the girls had gone inside St. Arbuck’s the woman stared at Barkley with a, “What am I going to do with you,” expression, which he met by dipping his head and adopting a posture of genuine contrition.
Shaking her head, the woman dug into her purse muttering, “Now where are those keys?” and dropping the leash in the process.
Barkley took that as his cue to go bounding across the lot to greet another new arrival, holding his leash in his mouth and offering it to an elderly woman who seemed to think it was the most precious thing ever.
“Barkley!” his owner hollered. “One...”
My wife rolled her eyes and texted me a, “Just shoot me!” icon.
Now, it could have been my overactive imagination, but I could swear that as he trotted up to his owner with the elderly lady in tow, he turned and winked at me.
