Poor, Poor Poodle

Last Monday (September 7, 2009), Heather and I took the dogs to a local High School for a game of fetch. We normally take them on walks through the the walking trails, the leash free areas, or just around the neighborhood. Occasionally we take them to a few pre-selected schools in the area that have large, fenced in sports fields so we can play fetch. Both of our dogs are pretty fast, and have a lot of energy, and LOVE to play fetch, so we use a Chuckit to really give them a run. A regulation sized football field or soccer pitch gives them enough room to really wear themselves out.

While we were there, in the early evening – still light out – someone started firing of fireworks nearby. You could barely see them. But you could definitely hear them. And that spooked Oscar. I had been unaware that fireworks scared Oscar, so his reaction was a bit of a surprise. He went absolutely squirrelly, dodging this way and that, running at top speed around the field in what I can only guess was an attempt to escape the alarming noise. We made the quick decision to leave early, and headed for the car. Both the dogs headed towards where we parked. As we approached, a family was just leaving with their dog in a van. Inexplicably, Oscar darted for their vehicle, which was already pulling out of the parking lot. He chased it, into the residential area in between our apartment and the school.

We shouted after him, not thinking he would go far. He disappeared from sight. We hopped into the car and gave chase. We started in one direction, but were quickly sent in another by a nearby pedestrian. We were redirected again by family outside of their residence, and mere moments after leaving the park, the trail went cold. There was no sign of him, or the van, anywhere. We drove around the neighborhood once, slowly, calling his name, and there was no response. I dropped Heather at another park near our house, took Gemma home and went back out on foot.

For the next seven hours, I was out walking around the neighborhood, and the surrounding area, shouting Oscar’s name. I would intermittently come home, and take Gemma out with me in the hopes that her scent might bring him out. We delved into the places he would be familiar with. Heather searched with me until she had to leave to go to her night shift. My brother Matt, His wife (and my sister-in-law) Sheri, and two other friends (Meghan and Alexandra) all came out to search when they returned home from work. Our neighbors, Ali and Rick, kept vigil in our neighborhood and at the apartment in case he showed up there.

At 1 am, I had to admit defeat. I wasn’t going to find him in the dark. My legs hurt, my back hurt, and I was exhausted. My voice was hoarse from shouting, and I’d already had two run-ins with the local crazy homeless person, that was apparently experiencing one of her ‘low’ moments. She’d come screaming out of the darkness, shouting obscenities and random delusions about dog attacks and my intent to kill her whenever I came within earshot of the alcove she’d holed up in for the night. I was beaten, I was scared, and I was desperate.

I went home, and made up a quick ‘Lost Poodle’ poster, and sent it to Heather to make copies of at work. She had already put a picture of Oscar and and a notice up on the Humane Society Lost Dog site, in the hopes that maybe someone had found him and was checking in there, instead of checking his tags that had her phone number on them. I couldn’t sleep, and I had to do something. I sat outside, on the curb after the poster was sent, for nearly an hour in the hopes that he’d show up.

I don’t know that I’d ever experienced something so emotionally wounding before. I was panicking on the inside. I was full of fear and dread, and images of the worst possible scenarios kept edging out the hopeful thoughts of his return. What if he’d been struck by a car and flung into a bush? What if he’d been run over, and then scooped up in an effort to cover up the slaughter of someone’s pet? My interest in the weird and wild lengths that people go to for no reason whatsoever fueled my belief that anything could have happened, and my imagination is a pretty powerful machine. I was eating away quickly at myself, fraying my nerves, and keeping myself awake with the horrible sinking feeling that something awful had happened to this dog I had come to love so much. My poor, poor poodle.

I dozed off on the couch, out of exhaustion around 5am, but woke again at six. I finally went to bed and fell into a fitful, exhausted sleep. At twenty after seven, Heather came home from work. At seven thirty five – I kid you not, fifteen minutes after Heather came home, there was a knock on the door. Heather lurched towards the door.