a hundred degrees

Mom's Ministry

My mother writes for a living. She's a grant writer for M. D. Anderson, her audiences are varied, but usually she has to dig technical information out of snobby superior doctor types and use it to appeal to whoever the bosses are trying to pry money out of. More than once I've heard her say that she'd like to just say, "People are dying! Give us your money!"

Mom sent an email to a number of folks that I wanted to share. She's not likely to start a blog, so I'm just going to stick it here.

The Dog Whisperers

In the last year and a half, Mike and I have found a new calling: finding lost dogs. There was Rudy, blind and lost in the middle of Pinemont; Ruth and Naomi, two sisters of partial golden retriever heritage, alone on a road near Abilene; and Max, a big old black labrador who came to stay with us a few days when the original finders couldn't keep him.

We have now added Hercules and Dante. We found them last week on a farm-to-market road in the Wet Valley of Colorado where Mike and I were vacationing. On our way to visit a friend, we turned onto a two--lane stretch of road that leads straight up into the snow-covered Sangre de Cristos. Water gurgled in the irrigation ditches alongside the road, redwing blackbirds flitted here and there, and the sky was blue. Then, about a half mile ahead, we saw two critters shambling down the middle of the paved road. One was large, shaggy and white with a long bushy tail and the other was leggy and black. My first thought was that we were seeing a pony and a new Angus calf. "Oh, Mike," I said, "someone's stock has gotten out." We drew a little nearer and then we knew: we were seeing two lost dogs. They had that uncertain gait of lost dogs and looked longingly at every truck that passed.

When we came even with them, we stopped, and so did they. The "pony" was a Great Pyrenees, full grown. The other was clearly a mix of pit bull and something else black (part Doberman, we found out later). Knowing there had been a bluegrass festival in nearby Westcliffe just a few days before, we figured they had gotten separated from their owners then. No one dumps a Great Pyrenees. Traffic was very light, and both dogs stood patiently while we checked their licenses. The smooth-haired black dog, later identified as Dante, only had his vet tags, but the Pyrenees had a tag identifying him as Hercules and gave his home phone number and address in Pueblo, Colorado. What to do?

We decided that I would stay with the dogs while Mike drove down to a ranch house and asked to use their phone to call the number. As it turned out, it took him awhile because the first two houses were empty and the lady at the third house really didn't want him to come in. Meanwhile, while Dante, Hercules, and I waited, a herd of 20 or more black Angus calves came crowding up to the fence on the other side of the irrigation ditch, pushing eagerly forward, wildly curious about what we were doing there. So, while Hercules lay in the irrigation ditch -- it was hot and he was trying to cool down under that thick, long, hairy white coat -- I explained the situation to the calves. A lady in a passing truck said it looked as though I were delivering a sermon. Well, hey, they asked!

Mike returned. He sighed, "The lady said we should take them to the sheriff's office." We looked at the dogs, all wet and muddy. We looked at our Honda Accord four-door sedan with its clean cloth upholstery. The dogs looked at us, panting and hopeful.

I looked at Mike and said, "Jesus said, 'I was a stranger, and you took me in.' He didn't say anything about upholstery or if it was convenient." Mike agreed, pulled over, turned off the ignition, and began emptying the backseat contents into the trunk. We still had a copy of the Houston Chronicle with us so spread it over the backseat the best we could. As I finished, I looked across the backseat to the open door on the other side. Dante stood there, waiting patiently but looking big-eyed with hope. I looked at him, patted the seat, and said, "Come on, boy, get in." With a look of joy and relief, he hopped in, came straight to the spot I indicated, sat down and curled up. "See, I'm a good dog. I know how to behave. You're not going to be sorry, lady."

Then it was Hercules's turn. There wasn't room on the backseat for him, too, so he climbed in, got his big head and a paw situated on the armrest between the front seats and heaved the rest of himself onto the floorboard behind the driver's seat. But his tail still hung out. So Mike sort of stuffed his tail in with the rest of him and closed the door real quick. We set the air conditioner on high and aimed the vents at Hercules' face -- poor baby was so hot -- and set off to find the sheriff's office. The Singing Sheriff of Custer County, to be exact.

The Singing Sheriff wasn't in, but the dispatcher was and called Hercules's home phone number. When no one answered, she left a message saying that the dogs were found. Then she told Mike, "We really don't have a Humane Society here in Westcliffe. All we have is Doggy Jail where we keep dogs until the owners show up or the Humane Society in Canon City or Pueblo can come get them." Doggy Jail is a couple of crates. Mike came out to relate all this to me. We looked at each other. We looked at the dogs, sitting quietly and trustingly in our backseat. "Well, what the heck," Mike said, "the car is already muddy and they are comfortable. We might as well take
them home to Pueblo."

Out on the Westcliffe main drag the sign read: Pueblo 56 miles. All that lay between us and Pueblo were a mountain range, a forest fire that had been out of control for three days, and the high desert on the far side. For Houston drivers, it was a piece of cake. We said a prayer that we could get these dogs home safely and set out. The dogs were great. Not a bark, not a whine, not a wiggle. The only time Dante moved was when we were taking some sharp S curves through the mountains and he slid back and forth across the seat on the slick newspaper covering. "No problem, folks. I'm cool." Once the AC had cooled Hercules down, he didn't even pant. He rested his big head between us on the armrest and slept. The two of them were a picture of total trust.

We passed a lot of firefighting equipment and TV news trucks on the east side of the mountains, but no one stopped us. (The highway had been closed a few days earlier.) As we neared Pueblo, we decided to get directions to the house and take the dogs there. If we could put them in the backyard, we would. If not, we would go to Walmart, get some rope and tie them somewhere in their yard. A clerk at a Stop and Rob got us off in the wrong direction, but we eventually asked a lady in her frontyard for directions. She set us on the right path, but she said the street we needed was in a new subdivision and was hard to find.

All along, Mike kept saying, "Someone will be home when we call." I was equally sure no one would be. It was a workday and by now it was noon. We decided to stop at a large Jug and Loaf store and Mike went in to make one more call and get directions if needed. A short while later, he returned and said, "I called and their son answered. He's on his way to get the dogs." Unbelievable. Ten minutes later, there was Matt who had just driven in from Denver and picked up the phone when Mike called. The dogs were supposed to be with Matt's dad on a hike in the mountains, which is why they were on "our side" of the valley. Matt was very grateful to get his dogs back. As for the dogs, they very matter-of-factly moved from our car to Matt's, and when Matt turned back to say something else, Hercules crawled over the back of Matt's front seat and settled himself comfortably into the driver's seat. It took quite a bit of tugging to get him out of there! They set off for home, and we went went to Appleby's for lunch and then took a leisurely drive back to camp. Mission accomplished.

P.S. Saturday night back in Houston, we received a thank you call from Matt's dad, who was effusively grateful for getting his dogs back. While he had been fishing, the dogs evidently got bored at the mountain camp and went exploring, possibly following some hikers who came through that day. "Hercules is the leader, and Dante just follows him wherever. Big as they are, I was pretty sure nothing could eat them, but I sure was worried about them. I can't believe you brought them to my house!" Well, you don't get much more "least of these" than a big, wet, lost dog miles from home--unless it is two big, wet, lost dogs miles from home.

Posted to Family and Home at July 18, 2005 3:44 PM