My mission to get the neighborhood kid to not think I'm an evil dog lady

I was walking my own dog and searching whether JUST Egg is healthier than regular eggs when a flash of gray and white ran a few feet by me. It took a second for me to realize this dog was not on a leash. I turned around in the direction of the dog headed to the corner where I was crossing, hoping to catch up to it, when two bicyclists zoomed by and stopped a couple of cars, whose drivers may or may not have seen this little speed racer.

While I stood on the corner looking to see if the bicyclists caught the dog, two pre-teen boys came jogging by, looking around. I asked if they were looking for a dog and they nodded. I pointed in the direction where the bicyclists and the dog went. They jogged on, one stopping momentarily to ask if I had treats. (I don't. Mine have to be refrigerated.)

After one block, those two boys and another two boys gave up and turned around. I kept going for a few blocks to see if I could find the bicyclists. I did. They said the dog was too fast and ran between houses. I looked at Junee, who attracts small dogs almost as much as small human children.

I hoped the sight of her would make the loose dog come out from wherever it ran. I'm actually shocked the dog didn't stop as soon as it saw us the first time, but it was running toward that corner like Flo-Jo. My dog search didn't work. I walked around the area for about 45 minutes and gave up. It would have been satisfying to bring the dog back to those kids. Hopefully, the dog returns home unscathed on his/her own.

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I’ve been trying to get in the good graces of a neighbor’s kid for months. About a year ago, he caught me during a morning dog walk and asked, “Can I pet your dog?” I snapped, “No” and kept walking. My usually vocal dog Junee said nothing, which is peculiar because she usually barks one time whenever someone speaks to me. It almost sounds like her version of “good morning.” The problem is I’m already not a morning person. But I was in a particularly grumpy mood that day for whatever reason.

A small part of me will forever not be used to how people (adults and children) walk up to small- and medium-sized dogs as though they know (and own) this pup. Without a care in the world, a bold group will reach down to try to pet a strange dog. Five years ago, when I adopted Junee, I was speechless by the obliviousness of this. I was also the prior owner of a purebred German Shepherd (Faith) and a Labrador/German Shepherd crossbreed (Shep).

In my experience, people just don’t walk up to large dogs the same way — unless it’s a therapy dog who has already been trained to be emotionally supportive and has that message on a harness. (There’s also the complicated history Black folks have with German Shepherds, so my skinfolk definitely kept their distance even if they saw me walking her from a block away.)

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With Junee, I’ve lost count of the number of random children who stroll up to my dog, thinking they can touch her. Last week, one lady was so busy texting on her phone that her child (or sibling) ran the distance of a small pond, bypassing the geese and running full speed toward my dog. I had to step in front of my dog to get this child to slow down. Children bombarding dogs almost always results in low growls or barking.

And Junee is undeniably meaner than Shep and Faith combined. While my first two dogs were fairly easygoing unless you crossed them, Junee has my morning grumpiness — even if it’s in the afternoon. It’s just that she still has the puppy cuteness that wore off with the more distinguished look that Puppy Shep and Puppy Faith used to have. But when she barks, you would swear it was a much wider and taller dog in front of you.

So my frustration with inattentive parents letting their small children wander over and forcing me to be the bad guy is draining. And my snippy “no” was just one of those days where I didn’t feel like patiently explaining to a child (or an adult) that not all dogs want to be petted by strangers.

Then, my mornings got complicated. The boy and his mother, who heard me say “no” the first time, started walking with her younger son in the mornings too. The difference is the younger boy never asked to pet my dog. He’d just shout, “HELLO DOG!” super loud and march on in the direction of school. I fought back a smile the first time I heard it.

Every morning, this smaller boy made his announcement over and over and over again. I don’t know if he saw me smiling, but it became my morning cup of coffee. He had the same enthusiasm as Linus from “The Peanuts,” happily talking about the Easter Beagle or the Great Pumpkin.

Then, one day, the mother walked past with one boy, who was quiet.

“You’re not going to say it?” I asked the boy.

The mother looked at me, confused, and laughed. “That’s the other boy, not him.”

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I looked closer at the child walking with her and realized I’d mistaken the “HELLO DOG!” shouter for the older boy who’d asked to pet my dog some time ago. Guilt set in. How was I going to explain why it was OK for his younger sibling to greet my dog but not him? And why was I suddenly so happy to see his brother? Would he understand that talking to a dog was a different (and safer) approach than marching over to grab a bunch of fur? (Kids have a habit of almost smacking dogs instead of petting them.)