Popeye had escaped his kennel again. I grabbed a leash from the office at SOS Chapala DOG Rescue (now closed) and set off in pursuit. “That big rascal!” I complained with feigned exasperation.
Popeye. The municipality had confiscated him after his owners had blown off a firecracker in his ear, destroying both the ear and one of his eyes. His resulting apparent squint explained why we’d affectionately named him Popeye. How could he still love people after some had treated him so viciously? The resiliency of so many abused dogs never ceased to amaze us.
I found Popeye in the large field just to the south of the shelter. He was sniffing around blissfully about a hundred yards away. I called to him, then squatted down. (I’d never have been able to catch him.) He looked up, wagged his tail, then came bounding towards me. I’d hoped to capture him with a hug; but unable to control himself, he knocked me over then slathered my face with his tongue. “You scruffy oaf!” I scolded as I put the leash on him.
I loved Popeye. Everyone did.
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