I became involved with a lost dog earlier this month. First, I saw the poster in the general store window. The photo, the dog’s name, date and location last seen, and the owner’s phone number. It broke my heart.
Lost Dog, Lost Cause
A lost dog is considered a lost cause around here. Too many coyotes, bears, fisher cats, logging trucks—all waiting to end the lost dog’s days.
A day later, I met the owner on the road where she’d lost the dog. She told me that the dog pulled out of her grasp to chase deer at the end of the field. The dog still had her leash on. The owner was in agony.
Leashed Lost Dog, Doomed
A lost dog wearing a leash is doomed. The leash gets snagged and the dog is stuck. Visions of tethered goats come to mind.
Arthur And I Go Into Action!
The next day I leashed my dog Arthur, packed water, and dressed like I was on some sort of gardening safari: hat, long-sleeved shirt, long pants, high boots, gloves, all doused in insect spray. It was very hot, but I knew we were going into rough terrain to look for the lost dog.
Behind the field where the lost dog was last seen, behind our friends’ house, looms a very large and wild place called Forge Hill. First we drove the length of a rough dirt road that traverses the area. I drove slowly, called the dog’s name, and stopped to listen. After that we parked back at the field and began the hard part of the search. Crossing the field was not as easy as I’d imagined, but what lay beyond it was so much worse.
My thinking was that if the lost dog was snagged on her leash, she might still be alive and not too far into the woods, especially if she was near the river that runs alongside and could access water. Alive or not, I thought it would be better for the owner to know.
What On Earth Were We Doing?
Arthur and I plunged into a swamp full of brambles. We scanned the river’s edges. We turned and began the ascent into the forest, littered with cut logs and dead branches—a very difficult climb already. I called the lost dog’s name. Going forward seemed hopeless. Going backwards seemed worse. I decided to go up.
The Ascent
It is no exaggeration to write that “up” was a 45-degree angle, littered with cut logs and branches, but also with plenty of standing and thin trees to grab at intervals. At the top, if we could climb it, we would be rescued by our friends’ flat, clear property. We climbed.
Arthur and his four paws pulled me and helped at crucial moments. However, he was hot and tired, and at times tried to go back down. He sat down and gave me a look. I grabbed a small tree, hoisted myself up and leaned on it while he rested.
Halfway up it occurred to me that while I’d done this kind of nutty, adventurous, and challenging thing often in my childhood and youth, I was well beyond all of that now. Or I should have been. Yet here we were, halfway up.
Past Halfway
Closer to the top the ascent became impossibly steep and I followed Arthur’s lead and dropped onto my hands and knees. Arthur may have recognized our friends’ property, the smell of it, or he decided that he was going to pull me up and be done with this insanity. Visions of broken legs and another lost dog, lost woman, danced in my head.
Saved
We arrived at the top and while I was thrilled, I was very happy nobody saw my ignominious arrival on all fours, sweating profusely, dressed like a gardener at V. Sackville-West’s Sissinghurst.
Our reward, besides an uninjured continuance of life, was a lovely bench. I hadn’t any idea that our friends had placed a wooden bench close to the cliff’s edge, but there it was. Gratefully flopping onto it, I pulled a water bottle and a collapsible dog bowl out of my pockets, and Arthur and I shared a cool drink.
Welcome
While our friends placed the bench in this lovely spot for their own reverie and relaxation, it felt like they’d put it there just for us, for our revival, our welcome. We sat there for quite a while, gazing down at the river (a long way down) and up at the mountain across from this spot.
Rousing ourselves, we walked the length of the cliff’s edge, while I called the lost dog’s name. I’d felt sure that Arthur was going to find the lost dog, but he did not. We’d kept ourselves from becoming lost, but the bench saved us.
Lost Dog, Not Doomed
A few days later, I returned to the general store. The lost dog sign was gone. The lost dog had been found—hungry, but OK. Not all lost dogs are lost causes or doomed. Not this lost dog. It was one of the best pieces of news I’ve had in a long time.