LOST in Leelanau

By Pat Stinson
Sun contributor
It was just over a year ago, on one of those warm spring days when the sun had heated the earth sufficiently to release smells of freshly-plowed dirt and flowering trees. The scents drifted past my nose on a warm breeze, as dog Lucy and I walked across a short field toward a stand of red pines on our property. Lucy stopped periodically, raising her long Sheltie nose and sniffing the air while she stood in shadows cast by the tall trunks. Wondering what she might be whiffing, I looked toward the forest. A flash of white between rows of conifers caught my eye and startled me. I edged a bit closer and, moving parallel with the trees, spotted a black and white little barrel shape on four spindly white legs slowly picking its way along a path in our woods. When it lifted its head, tiny ears flapping, I saw the unmistakable flat snout and cheeky features of a type of bulldog, though this little guy seemed smaller than others of the breed.

A half dozen questions crowded my thoughts: Was it lost, or did it regularly travel the short distance from a nearby subdivision to visit our woods? Should I leave it alone to find its way home? Should I approach it to check for tags, or follow it? I knew only one thing … Lucy would not be pleased to share my company with a strange dog. I quickly guided her the short distance back to our house and returned as silently as I could, all the while flashing back to a time 40-plus years ago when I had met another of its type quite unexpectedly. I had been outside, minding my own business, when a bulldog had charged me from a neighbor’s yard. The sound and sight of its rushing fury forced me to take refuge in the family car, serendipitously parked in the driveway. I lay on the old Pontiac’s horn as only a mortally-frightened seven year old could.
Today’s dog seemed harmless, at least from a distance. Its black-and-white coloring convinced me it was a variation of the breed — exactly which one, I had no idea. The word “Boxer” came to mind, though I knew the color and height were all wrong. What I presumed was a “he,” (after all – how could anything with “bull” in its name possibly be female?), had left the pines now and was leisurely heading toward the edge of our property. I watched as the little guy entered our crumbling, three-sided horse shelter and plopped himself down for a nap in a pile of leaves. He had obviously done this before. I crept back to the house and fretted over unanswered questions. While relating the story to my partner a little later, I discovered he had seen the dog walking in the pouring rain two days earlier. Lost! I pictured a fragile spinster calling for Fido every morning from her back doorstep.
I immediately went back down the hill to the shelter with a small dish of dog food and a giant tub of water. The interloper was sacked out on his maple-leaf bed. I moved as quietly as I could among the leaves and fallen branches, placed the dish and tub just outside the entrance to the shelter, checked to see if he was wearing a collar, (couldn’t tell), and tiptoed back to the house. I spent an hour online, researching bulldogs and boxers, and finally decided our little guy was a Boston Terrier — larger and more muscular than the toy versions in the web photos and lacking the breed’s usually-erect ears.
What to do with him? This was a Saturday, and I couldn’t place an ad in the newspaper until Monday. I went to work composing and printing FOUND notices for neighbors’ mailboxes and local stores. It was 10:30 p.m. when my printer gasped the last flyer from its tray and midnight before the notices were attached to neighbor’s mailboxes.
The next day, our lost dog was still asleep in his leaves. The forecast was for cold and rainy weather, so I lined Lucy’s pet carrier with a down vest, cut up a garbage bag to keep the carrier dry, and silently (except for crunching leaves and snapping twigs) put the crate next to him. He woke up and growled mightily while I re-filled his water & food dishes. I left him alone for a few hours and went back down at noon; he had eaten all of the food, drank most of the water, and had slipped inside the pet carrier where I could hear him lightly snoring. I refilled the food dish and tip-toed back up the hill to the house.
My new friend, who I nicknamed “Grumpy,” wasn’t wearing any tags, and I had a decision to make. The weather was going to be even colder the next couple of nights. I knew I couldn’t bring him up to the house, he was just too scared, and my Sheltie’s high-strung temperament wouldn’t help. I didn’t want to call Animal Control to take him to the Humane Society, because I wasn’t sure how long they’d keep him. As an older doggy with what appeared to be cataracts, one red eye, and an apparent hearing problem, Grumpy just didn’t seem like anyone’s second or even third adoption choice.
I called Leelanau County Animal Control anyway, told them about Grumps, and decided that I would run a free ad in the local paper for four days. During that time, plenty of folks, all women, called on their lost doggies — but none of them was Grumpy’s owner.
The days got warmer, and Grumpy spent them laying in the sunshine, getting up only to pee or to eat. Then, one day I went down the hill with a big dog treat and left it on the ground a little further than usual from his shelter. I waited a few feet away. He started walking toward the treat, and I backed up slowly while he came within six feet of me, grabbed the biscuit, and took it back down the hill to his leaf pile. Later in the day, I took another treat down and clapped & whistled at him. He walked up to me, gingerly took the treat from my hand, and continued right on past me up the hill to devour it.
He was getting a little less Grumpy.
That night, about 8:30, I went down to check on him — he was gone! No Grumpy anywhere. I combed the forest — nothing. The neighbor’s 80 acres is a dangerous place. Besides frequent coyote visits, the land is full of coyote traps. I roamed the empty fields.
I went to bed that night feeling disgusted with myself. I should have asked Animal Control to take Grumpy to the Humane Society, where he’d at least have a warm bed and where, if the end were going to come, if would do so quickly and painlessly.
In the early morning, I decided to rub salt in the ol’ wound and check to see if he had returned. There he was, curled up tightly as he could be, inside the pet carrier. I knew what I had to do. I called Animal Control, explained where Grumpy could be found, and the kind officer told me that he would only pick up Grumpy if I first closed the pet carrier door. Now that Grumps’ strength had returned, and he was free to wander, there wasn’t any guarantee he’d be here when Animal Control arrived. So, I walked as quietly as I could back down the hill, sneaked up behind the carrier, and with my traitor heart pounding so loudly I was sure it would wake him, closed the door on my little buddy. He woke with a start — growling and snarling and lunging at the carrier door. Animal Control came soon after and took him away.