Thursday night. My wife, Susan, and I were glued to an episode of The Crown. The catastrophic collapse of a colliery spoil tip in the hills above Aberfan, Wales, had swallowed an entire community claiming 144 lives — 116 of them children.
The camera was tight on the face of Queen Elizabeth II. A tear welled up in her eye when a NextDoor post broke in: “Urgent Alert. Fluffy Brown Dog running up 26th past Division [toward] Hawthorne. Originally dropped at Powell/26th by unknown man.” That abandoned dog had probably just run past our condo complex.
Susan and I slipped on shoes and jackets, assured our Boston terrier, Lilly, that we would return shortly, and dashed out the door. Armed with high beam headlights and iPhones, we interwove the neighborhood streets beyond the dog’s last observed point. I had Susan pull over by the lush grounds of a church, thinking a frightened dog might take refuge there. Nothing.
Horrifying visions ensnared me. The dog’s late-night car ride. Daddy averting his eyes. Screeching to a halt. The kick in the rear. Spilling out onto the cold sidewalk. Dumped like a sack of trash. Daddy’s car door slamming shut. The car peeling away trailing a plume of burning rubber. Spinning into a furry blur. Shake it off. Maybe daddy will come back. Spin. Stagger. A piece of gravel wedged between the toes. Crying. Cars whooshing past. Sifting the air for familiar scents. Come back, daddy! I’ll be good . . . Wandering into the night when it was clear daddy was not coming back.
We snailed north past Hawthorne, hearts racing as we discussed next steps in the event we found this abandoned fur-baby. Adopt. That he or she had brushed so close to our residence was kismet. Lilly would adjust. A brother or sister would be good for her. She’d learn that she wouldn’t have to compete for love or other resources. Lilly’s sibling would know love and trust, possibly for the first time.
Half an hour later, we backtracked to where he’d been abandoned. No clues. Only wilted fantasies of a new family member. Vicious fictional dialogues with a cowardly dog dumper. A mutual avalanche of sadness.
Dejected, we pulled into our parking space and dragged up the stairs. Lilly greeted us at the front door. If she were human, she might have worn a hands-on-hips-where-have-you-been expression.
“Sorry, Lilly, no brother of sister tonight. Maybe someday,” I said.
In less than an hour we’d slide into Friday, National Lost Dog Awareness Day; a day to increase awareness, help prevent animals from going missing and celebrate reunions. That night, we fell asleep to hopes that our lost friend would find a new family, one that took every step to ensure that their loved one never went missing again — by accident or on purpose.