I see that someone is killing dogs in Idaho. Nasty business, but I understand. Feral dogs are a huge problem for stock owners, and while I don't agree with needlessly killing dogs, I can understand protecting property, and I can't understand unfeeling folks who "drop-off" dogs in the country because they're tired of dealing with them in town.
We're discussing this problem at The Gun Counter, and it reminded me of a story from the early '80s when I broke one fellow from dropping off dogs in our country neighborhood.
Back about '83 or '84 it became Father's Day and my kids presented me with a set of binoculars. Nothing expensive, but yet binocs. We lived way out in the country, so far down a bad road that all the neighbors knew each other's vehicles and we had a pretty good "nosy-neighbor neighborhood watch". We also had a problem with city folks dumping unwanted dogs in our area. We mostly adopted the good ones and buried the others. However, it was a problem.
Anyway, that beautiful Sunday afternoon, I'm sitting on the front porch, playing with my new binocs and I notice a strange car driving slowly down the road. He passes the house and goes down the road about 100 yards, then stops and a dog falls out of the passenger side. I get his plate with my brand-new binocs. Then I walk inside and call the Sheriff's Office, where my buddy is working the desk. He runs the plate for me. Cool. Now I've got a vehicle description and an address.
I go outside, catch the dog and put him in the kennel. Water him, a little feed. Poor mutt's confused as hell. But PawPaw has a plan.
The next morning I get up and load that confused mutt, then head to the local dog pound, run by a curmudgeonly woman named Bobbi. "Bobbi", says I, "I need to borrow some dogs."
"Borrow?" she asks, so I explain my plan. Before long we're loading about a half-dozen dogs in my pickup, all strung on one piece of clothesline. I drive to the address, and sure enough, there's the car I saw yesterday, parked in the garage. NIce house, nice car, nice neighborhood. At that time, lots better than I can afford. So, I unload the dogs, take them to the front door, and tie that clothesline to the doorknob. And ring the bell.
A man comes to the door. Khaki pants and white button down. He opens the door and the clothesline dogs surge in to the house. "What the hell is going on?" He's tangled up in the dogs, confused, and one big cur has squatted and is taking a dump in his foyer.
"Mister" says I, "where I live we've got a huge problem with people dumping dogs they don't want. I don't know if all these dogs are yours, but I know for damned sure that your car (I point at the car) dumped that dog (I point at the first dog) on my road yesterday. I figure that all these dogs are yours. You have a nice day."
I checked with Bobbi later and asked her if her dogs had come back to the pound. "Yes indeed, she says, and I charged that asshole a $10.00 adoption fee for each and every one."