I saw a dog on the roof.
Earlier this week on my bike ride home from work, I saw a dog on the roof of a house.
It was a two-story house with a second-floor window that opened out onto a down-sloping roof. The dog looked something like a basset hound—non too agile, I’d have to say, at the risk of being a dog breedist. Not being much of a risk-taker, I thought, “He must be terrified up there.” Being a fairly fervent dog-lover, I thought, “I have to help him!”
I wheeled my bike onto the sidewalk. The dog observed my approach, barked, and took two steps closer to the edge.
“Oh no,” I thought. “I’m going to drive him to jump to his death!” I tried to move more quietly, as I leaned my bike against the fence surrounding the front yard.
“If I can just get to the door without him jumping,” I told myself, “then I can tell the owner ‘Your dog’s on the roof!'” The dog’s life will be saved, and I’ll be a hero.
Then, I heard a voice calling from inside the window. A young woman appeared at the window. She called to the dog, and then looked down at me.
“Oh, you knew,” I said. “I thought—”
“Yeah, he’s fine,” she said, “but thanks!”
The dog trotted up the sloped roof and into the window. I got back on my bike and rode home, where my dog was waiting for me—on the ground.