With the advent of Memorial Day weekend, the  summer season officially kicks off in my hometown. Locals, anxious to take advantage of the influx of visitors, drag out items that even Goodwill would turn away, and set up shop in their garages. Variously known under the names of lawn, yard and garage sales, the sheer volume of them is only slightly less invasive than crab grass.

My boss generously closes the office early on Friday, giving me an extra hour to shop for the long weekend. At the busiest traffic intersections, garage sale signs have sprung up overnight, and my teeth reflexively move into grinding mode. My last stop, before heading home, is for Chicago-style pizza.

Downtown Traverse City to my house is an approximate distance of ten miles. The last six of those are along a two-lane state highway lined with residences. Halfway home and just past the fifth garage sale sign, a man staggers into my lane hauling a weed whacker.

I swerve to avoid mowing him down, and cringe as I see my bags of groceries upended in the back seat. Hands still shaking two miles later, I pull into my garage, tip the visor down and punch the button on the overhead remote. In fitful increments my garage door groans, eventually touching down on the pavement.

I do understand that tourism brings huge revenues into our town, along with fun festivals and outdoor events. But understanding is a long way from acceptance. I've spent an hour in traffic that has literally tripled in forty-eight hours, and I feel like Tipi Hedron up in the attic losing her battle against The Birds*.

Letting out a drawn-out disgusted breath, I place a grocery tote over each wrist, stack the pizza box on top of my briefcase and trudge to my entrance. It's then I realize I'm short one item.

Aw, crap, where did I put my keys?

Deconstructing my load, I paw the contents of my purse for my key chain.

I just had them in my hands?!

Swearing with the ingenuity of a flophouse whore, I tip my purse upside down and sift through its contents. Finally I locate my keys - in the pocket of my jacket.

By now my feet are screaming for a soak, and I'm anxious to wrap my lips around Humpalicious, my current microbrew flame.

But the 'boys' will have to wait. I've promised my elderly neighbor, Jane Dingman, I'll walk and feed her dog for the two days she's visiting her brother. 

Jane is a pleasant lady whom I've never seen wearing anything but the colors white in the summer and off-white in the cooler months. She has a black schnauzer named Jake, who I think is adorable, if a bit standoffish. Jane says it's the breed. I think Jane's rubbed off on the dog.  

The sun is beginning its descent behind the trees as I let myself into Jane's home. I expect Jake to be there barking at the unexpected intrusion, but the house remains quiet.

Have I screwed up the dates?

To my left, there's a flash of black. I whirl in time to see Jake running down the stairs that lead to the house's lower level. Thinking he's playing a little game, I say, "Come on, Jake, it's time to go for a walkies." I wait for a sound to tell me where he's gone and get nada, zip, nossiree bob.

Then I remember something Jane told me about Jake. A little quirk that's fairly common with the breed. Jake hides under beds during thunderstorms. Maybe he's panicked because his mistress left him behind?

Getting down on my knees, I look under the double bed pushed up against a wall in the basement  bedroom. Jake is backed up against the wall and watching me. When I reach for him, he growls and moves out of my reach.

Not deterred, I get some dog treats from the kitchen and try a new tactic. Thinking I'll lure him from under the bed, I hold one out and say, "Come on out, Jake. There's more treats for you when we get back from your walk."

He turns his face away and lays his head on his paws. I'm tempted to fill his food and water dishes and skip the walk, but a picture of myself cleaning up the carpet when he messes it pushes me to plan B.

If I were a dog, what would get to me to do something outside my comfort zone? Of course, real meat!

I return to Jane's kitchen and examine the contents of her refrigerator. There's Greek yogurt, an open box of white Chablis and tofu hotdogs. Although I consider briefly the idea of dousing the tofu dogs in the Chablis and seeing how that flies with Jake, I decide that would constitute animal cruelty and move to plan C.

This involves me going back to my house and procuring a package of beef bologna.

I've never known a dog to resist the lure of processed meats.

Fairly confident that Jake will react like any other dog would to the smell of real meat, I roll a slice of bologna into the shape of a cigar. Flattening my body to the floor and pulling myself a few feet from Jake, I wait to see if he takes the bait.

Playing it cool, he lifts his head and gives me a defiant look. Then with a hummingbird's speed, he snatches the meat from my hand and swallows without chewing.

Great, he's hungry.

I make another bologna tube, but this time I make him crawl out farther to get it. By the fourth slice of bologna, Jake's standing next to me ready to follow me to the ends of the Earth.

Walking along the quiet streets of the subdivision, we raise a growing cacophony of barks as we pass the houses with dogs. A block from home, stuck into the roadside gravel, is a series of signs strategically placed to lure garage salers:

multi family summer sale
kid's clothes
gently used furniture
sale ahead - 411 Bayview Drive

Across the yard from me!

Jake knows he's almost home and walks a little faster. But I've got a plan, and I'm hoping he has one last squirt in him. I pull out a slice of bologna and rub it all over the last garage sale sign, then tug his leash in its direction and wait to see what'll happen.

Jake searches the ground for the meat he smells. Not finding any, he looks up at me in confusion. In one of those moments of perfect communication between species, I lay my last bologna slice across the top of the sign and say, "Give it all you've got, buddy."

He snarfs down the bologna, lifts his leg and makes me proud. Grinning, I sit back on my heels and scratch behind Jake's ears, luxuriating in my new BFF's baloney breath.