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A dog-gone Independence Day weekend
We had a quiet Fourth of July this year. The iffy weather kept us away from the fireworks at Ida Lee, but I heard they were quite nice.
But the Fifth of July – that was another story.
The noise started early that day, when we were getting ready for an afternoon party. Normally our trio of dogs would be gathered around anyplace where food preparation is occurring. As with any red-blooded, American dog, Thanksgiving – with its tantalizing turkey smells and plates of bread and bowls of dressing so-o-o close to the edge of the counter – that’s the real favorite holiday.
But on this day, the girls were clustered around the front door, completely focused on something just beyond it. We heard a torrent of barks coming from the three: Bonnie (the black lab), Penny (the long-haired standard dachshund) and Zoe (the tri-color Sheltie).
This wasn’t the standard “Hey, I haven’t seen that weird-looking leaf in our yard before! Mom!” kind of patrolling bark. This was loud, persistent, distressed yapping – the stuff reserved for persons, canines or felines unknown.
And in fact, my husband was coming up the walk with a dog who was not only unknown – it was a “he.” Our three girls were having none of it.
We didn’t want to let him just wander around. We put him up in the fenced-in kennel we have in the backyard, where he’d be contained with shade, water and food. What’s more, he’d have a view of the party goings-on.
There was no collar with tags. We didn’t know where the poor guy came from, but we figured he had run off from his home in a familiar Independence Day MO.
You see, three years earlier, one of our own girls – Zoe, just seven months old then – had run off. She had been in one of our hay fields the night of July 3, taking care of some business before bedtime. Someone in the neighborhood had decided to start celebrating early. The sharp crackle of fireworks spooked her, and off she went into that dark, balmy night.
We called. We searched. Such a young dog. Shelties can be rather high-strung, and Zoe was no exception. The sound of the vacuum in the house was enough to send her running. The firecrackers had just been too much.
Of course, right away we reported her missing to the Loudoun County Animal Shelter. They were very kind, and shared with us that the July 4th holiday is the No. 1 time for runaway dogs. Even for dogs who don’t bolt, it can be rather upsetting in a way that … let’s just say you might need to run out for carpet cleaner the next day.
Well, the days wore on, and Zoe was simply gone. I pictured her, lost, alone and terrified. A couple of thunderstorms boomed overhead and the rain fell. I conjured images of her huddled under a tree or near an old shed or barn. At the very least, my husband assured me, rain meant fresh water to drink.
Every day, the kids and I drove around, calling her name, scrutinizing every stand of bushes, the gaps between houses. We put up fliers with her photo and vital information. Nothing.
One day we were nearing home in the car. Before me, I saw tangle of black and white hair, lying crumpled and motionless in the middle of the road. I gasped. Please don’t let that be Zoe. Our poor baby.
As I passed, I realized it was not Zoe, but a skunk. I was sorry for the animal, but overjoyed it wasn’t our girl. The search went on.
On Day 5, as my son and I ventured out to put up new fliers, my daughter received a phone call at home. Were we missing a black, white and tan Shetland Sheepdog?
Minutes later, some very nice folks returned Zoe – thinner, covered in burrs and ticks, but intact. The people, about a mile and half away, had lured this timid, lost-looking dog to their back porch with some food, and luckily her collar and tags were still on. The prodigal dog had been returned. Joy! Rapture!
All of this was in my mind as the party went on. We kept an eye on our visitor. One of our guests even brought a flier that had been put up in his Loudoun Orchard neighborhood that very day. Some other family had lost not one, but two, of their dogs – scared by fireworks the day before. Our foundling was not one of these missing two.
I hope with all of my heart they’ve found them. After all, those are family members gone. I know without asking what that feels like.
By the next day, July 6, someone else had posted fliers in our neighborhood and our furry friend was returned from whence he had come.
Whew! We all made it through another blazing, smoking, crackling 4th of July holiday.
But deep inside, I know my dogs are thinking, “Is it Thanksgiving yet?”
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