Recently I heard a loud barking coming through the walls of my art gallery. I went outside to check and found a car with two little black dachshunds inside, in a crate, barking to beat the band. It was a hot day and one window was opened just a teeny crack. Since the car was parked outside a restaurant, I went inside in search of the owner. This took mere seconds since as I started to describe the situation to the hostess, she said, "Oh yes, I know the owner, she comes here often. I'll send her right out."
"Right out" turned out to be 20 more minutes of frantic barking, during which I fantasized about all the horrible things I could do to the woman, none of which I did, including calling the police. Finally she sauntered out--I could see her through my front window--and in a chipper, baby-talk voice said, "Relax guys, Mommy is back."
As she drove away, the dogs still in their crate and no water offered to either one, I was sad, but at the very least happy that she was not my mommy.