1.2 million dogs are killed on the road each year in the US. As I sat in my truck waiting for the light to turn green, I thought I was about to witness 1.2 million, + 1.
I was stopped at a one-way intersection and cars prepared to turn left onto the straightaway in front of me.
The dog strutted into view on lean legs made to run. Her blonde feathered tail was perched confidently atop her long slender back. If I had to guess her DNA results, they’d show Saluki and Golden Retriever.
Six feet behind her, at full extension of the leash, was her owner, also a blonde, speed walking on equally long legs. The handle of the leash was delicately balanced on her index and middle fingers, begging to fall.
The owner stepped into the street ahead of the dog, but the dog dug its feet into the curb, refusing to cross. The owner, eyes forward, crossed the street, and the dog followed once the leash tightened.
Her owner stepped onto the curb, but the dog stopped shy of the sidewalk. The woman was now six feet away again and continued to stare straight ahead, leash stretched. The dog squished her nose against the asphalt along the gutter line, the curl of her tail erect over her back. Maybe she caught a whiff of pee from a friend or relished the smell of fall foliage rotting in a puddle of car oil.
Or maybe it was antifreeze. But her owner wouldn’t know, because she is still standing on the sidewalk, staring blankly ahead. She holds the leash taut, but won’t pull the dog out of harm’s way.
I held my breath as cars rounded the corner, narrowly missing the dog. I wanted to slam my fist into the steering wheel and obnoxiously blast my horn. But I knew the dog’s owner wouldn’t notice. She is planted on the sidewalk, like a confused zombie, focusing on something in the ether as her dog sniffs her life away.
Finally, after seconds that felt like hours, the dog finishes sniffing, and it is my turn to go straight through the light. I slowly pull ahead, keeping one eye on the dog- eye contact her owner should’ve had.
The pair continued walking, the dog’s petite paws dancing on the pavement to avoid getting tangled up in six feet of nylon. She repeatedly glances up at her owner, who, of course, isn’t paying attention.
Not once did her owner make any effort to grip the leash handle tighter, pull in the slack, or even do a single wrap around the wrist.
I glowered at the traffic in front of me as the duo walked out of view, leash dragging through city muck.