Soft brown eyes in a worried, furry face peered out at me from the crate in the back of the camper.    “He’s kind of upset,” said the kind lady who’d driven him. “He barked all the way.”   The slight clouding in the center of the dark eyes suggested that this old fellow wasn’t seeing quite as clearly as he once had—that could be a reason for his anxiety.           He hadn’t been inside a house for at least six months, hadn’t been combed or brushed for much, much longer.   His heavy undercoat was snarled in thick, itchy mats.   He’s been eating the very cheapest discount brand dog food and his dull, dry coat told me  that he’d been given a minimum of care and attention for a long time. No wonder he was worried.      You must pretty concerned about what’s going to happen to you, poor fella.

He hadn’t understood any of the things that had happened to him in the past year.   Like, where had the family gone that he had lived with for almost 9 years—one day, they just led him into a big, noisy building, walked out the door, and never came back for him.   He hated it there.  He wasn’t used to being in a cage, and there was so much barking and noise and people hurrying.   No one ever seemed to have time to pet him or talk to him, so he just laid in the corner quietly, hoping to avoid trouble in this chaotic place.  The memory of the family grew dimmer and dimmer.   One day an old man and his wife stood in front of his cage and pointed to him, and he was led out of the cage—finally!            But they didn’t seem to like petting or brushing either—they wanted him to stay outdoors to keep the coyotes away from their chickens.    It was lonely and pretty boring, so on days when no one seemed to need him, he would roam around the countryside, sniffing all the scents, chasing rodents and stray cats, whatever jobs he though would be useful.   But the farmer always seemed angry when he’d return to where the food was—sometimes he’s shake his fist at him—and then he’d attach a chain to his collar.  He hated being chained, and so he chewed and chewed at the metal, until most of his teeth were worn down.   And every time he could, he slipped away to return to the fields, trying to chase away any varmints he came across    When he’d come back to the farm late at night, his bowl of food would be sitting outside by the tree, and he’d curl up near it to sleep.

Today, something different had happened.  The farmer put a new collar on him and led him by his old, knotted up leash to the truck   He had only ridden in the truck two times before, once when they brought him home from the shelter and not too long ago  when they’d taken him to a man who stuck something in his leg and let some of his blood flow into a tube.   This time, after the farmer lifted him into the truck, they rode a long time, and he watched out the back window at the trees and fields flashed past.     Then he was led from the farmer’s truck into another vehicle, for another long ride, and then another.  He had never been inside a vehicle for so long, and he wanted to get out!   Woof, woof!

 C’mon, Harry, you’re coming with me, now.   Let’s get you home and get you cleaned up—you’re my new foster dog!

12/5

Harry is now confident enough that he’ll be let back in the house that he goes out during the day to explore in the woods.   A couple of days ago we had a heavy frost, and all the dogs were excited to be out the next morning, their heads held high as they trotted about sniffing the air.   When I looked out mid-morning to check where everyone was, Jane and Simon were striding about, inspecting things, but Harry wasn’t with them.  I finally located him by his furry tail waving in the air; he was buried up to his elbows in a hole he had dug, chasing after CRITTERS!     He came in with muddy paws and a look of triumph at having disrupted some little furries as they tried to snuggle deep into their nest for a long winters’ sleep.  

            His neuter incision is completely healed, he hasn’t had a single accident in the house, and his mats are all combed out.   He has a funny, endearing way of stamping his front feet when he has an especially important point to make:  “Is dinner ready yet?” or “There’s something outside I need to look at!”   He has taken to napping on the couch, however, which isn’t permitted.   The other day Jim and I were headed out for dinner and a movie, and Jim had to nip back into the house for something he forgot.  Harry greeted him sleepily: “If I’d known you were coming back so soon, I wouldn’t have gotten up on the couch . . . yet.”   

12/11

Harry is a pack rat.  He drags around the most unlikely things from where he finds them to where he thinks they ought to be.    Childrens’ books go from my office to Jim’s, wastebaskets wind up in the sunroom, a pair of Jim’s slacks traveled from our bedroom to the foyer.   Harry doesn’t chew things up; he just moves them around.  I often find him resting with one of my shoes tucked under his chin, although one of my favorite pair of clogs is still missing.    All in all, it’s not much of a problem, except when he decides that the water bowl needs to be moved with the water still in it.

            Last weekend, I was putting up some holiday bows on our front doors and didn’t realize he had followed me.   He slipped out the door and galloped happily across the lawn to greet a couple neighbors who were chatting by the road.    I grabbed some shoes and set off to corral him, but Harry had other ideas: ”Yea, she’s coming with me!”    He trotted ahead of me up the road, checking out mailbox posts and bushes, his tail waving happily, keeping just out of my reach.   Up at the corner, we met Jim driving back from taking some brush up to the back lot.   I waved him down, thinking the two of us should be able to close in and get a leash on Harry.   Harry would have none of it—he slipped between two houses and set off through the yards with Jim in pursuit.    Usually it’s possible to follow an escapee’s progress by listening to the barking as each resident dog announces to the newcomer that this is his yard and no visitors are welcome.  But the neighborhood was silent—no sound from the greyhound house, nor the potbelly pig and rabbits’ house— just a peaceful winter’s afternoon.   Finally, I got in the truck and drove slowly along the roads, peering between houses for a glimpse of Jim, hopefully with Harry in tow.   I heard my name and turned to see Jim heading up the steep slope that drops off on the other side of the road, down toward the long sweep of farm fields and ultimately the river.   Uh-oh—Harry’s headed for the river.   We often hear the coyotes howling from there in the dark, and there’s rumored to be a pack of feral dogs that occasionally roam at night in search of small household pets.   We spied a tiny patch of black and white way, way in the distance, almost to the riverbank, sighed, and set off through the fields.    After about an hour of searching and no sight or sound of Harry, we gave our phone numbers to the nearby neighbors and headed back home, ticking off the things we were grateful for:  he has his foster dog tag on, his neuter incision is completely healed, and deer season is over.     Within an hour, I got a call from the neighbor—Harry was in his front yard.   We took a ride over, but Harry was gone-- how can a 47 pound black and white dog disappear that quickly into a leafless winter landscape?   As we pulled back into our drive, Harry came trotting happily around the corner from the front of the house—hi, where’ve you been?    I had so much fun—let me inside and I’ll tell you all about it while you comb out all the burrs and bootjacks.  

12/19

  Harry continues to do well.   He’s a lovey dog: loves to lean against you, loves to have his ears scratched, loves to be stroked, loves to nap in the sun.  His hips, once bony and protruding, are filling in and rounding out nicely.    His rear thighs had seemed a bit thin and wasted when he came to us—perhaps he had been tied out a lot-- but he’s building up nice muscle mass and we now see him bounding up the hill in back, and barreling back down right along with Janey and Simon.  He sure has some strange habits in the house, though.   He will pick up a shoe and carry it to the sunroom, but he never chews it, just lays it next to him or tucks it under his chin.    He does like to gnaw anything plastic:  pill bottles, deodorant cases—a nearly empty cream cheese container was a jackpot find and kept him occupied for hours.   Oh, Harry!  

            We had dinner guests last evening, and Harry was a bit perplexed.  He was clearly happy to see people, but he also seemed to think perhaps he should protect us against these strangers.   So he positioned himself in front of our guests, stamping his front feet excitedly and wagging his tail furiously.  But if they took one step in any direction, Harry moved to cut them off.    Perhaps Harry wasn’t ever allowed in the house when guests were present, but with the holiday season approaching, he’ll have to get used to being introduced. 

            When darkness falls, all the dogs like to lie outside for a while, testing the air for scents and listening to the night sounds.   Our guys are happy to come in at bedtime, but Harry has another strange habit—as soon as we whistle or call, he takes off up the hill toward the huge old oak and stands there, looking up at the highest branches.  The raccoons live up in that old tree, and we’re guessing Harry somehow thinks his job is to make sure they stay up there.   It’s a lost cause, Harry, ‘cause those old ‘coons are going to come down every night, just as they always have, and go exactly where they please, and we don’t want any of you dogs tangling with them.    

            Last thing before bed, if Harry hasn’t come in yet, we have to keep returning to check whether he’s ready to give up his vigil and come inside.   Sometimes, I’ll find him curled up just outside the door, or underneath a nearby bush.   Now, during the day when he’s ready to come in, he lets us know—woof, woof, I’m ready, open the door!    But at night he never barks to come in.   We wonder if he got so used to curling up by the back door at day’s end, never being invited in, night after night, year after year, that this habit still sticks.  Sometimes I have to step out and touch him lightly:  c’mon in, Harry, it’s bedtime, old fella. 

 Harry went to live in his forever home the following February, with a young couple in Chicago, Illinois.   Harry’s a city boy, now!