Susannah Charleson - Where the Lost Dogs Go: A Story of Love, Search, and the Power of Reunion

Puzzle off-duty, at play beside our house.

P uzzle wakes me with her going. Somewhere in my sleep I must have felt her head lift first, before she rolled up onto her feet, but it is my hand in empty air, the stab of her absence, that truly wakes me. The golden retriever pads to the edge of the front porch, and I open my eyes, squinting into the afternoon haze. Puzzle moves a little stiffly, as though her hips are tired. She poises at the steps that lead down to the yard, turning her head toward the cross street and drawing her ears forward in question. In this light, I can see her silvered face.

Puzzle is an eleven-year-old search-and-rescue dog, and Im the partner who runs beside her to find missing persons. A decade ago she was the bright spark of a puppy in training and I the human adult who had to keep up with her, but in the unfair way of dogs and time, Puzzle is senior to me nowher dog years equate seventy-two to my fifty-five. She wears it well. Puzzles pretty face still lights up at the prospect of workher favorite adventureand she bounds across the search field with joy. But Ive seen a change in her gait lately, and sometimes at the end of long days across rough terrain, her hips betray her.

The golden trained hard in the heat this morning. We both did. We came home ready for a late lunch followed by a nap together. It is an after-work ritual weve had for years: I lie in the porch swing, and Puzzle stretches out beneath me on the wood planks, where my fingertips graze her shoulders with each movement of the swing.

Something got her up now, though.

Whats going on? I wonder, as Puzzle trots down the steps and rounds the corner of the house out of sight. I sit up fuzzily, thick and stupid with nap sleep, more curious than worried. Puz works with me off-leash, sometimes searching a long way away before communicating back to me. Shes a faithful dog with a solid recall. The invisible line forged between us means I could call her now and she would return from wherever shes gone, for whatever reason. But part of the deal is that I pay attention to what she shows me at any time.

I find her standing in the dry grass at the edge of the front yard. Shes concentrating there, her head cocked, gazing down the street. Puzzle has always paid attention to change near her territory. Her tail waves idly as she marks my approach, but she doesnt turn her head.

Something is happening a few houses north of us. From where we stand I hear the long bleat of a horn, the slam of a car door, and faint voices raised. Then a battered white car speeds past us, followed by anxious, escalating cries. Louder now, I hear the unsteady slap of feet running toward us. A young woman hurtles into view, so awkwardly Im afraid shell fall. Shes got on black yoga pants and a sweat-soaked pink tank top, and shes trying to run along the uneven sidewalk in flip-flops. Her expression is panicked. Her short light hair is wild.

My dog, she says. My dog is gone. Shes breathless and hoarse. A lady... back there says you, says your dog... says you can... She looks at me blankly, like she doesnt know what to ask for. His heart is bad, she says. Please.

Puzzle can sense the tension. She steps forward to the young woman at the fence, scenting her hand and quivering with adrenaline. Well come, I tell the young woman. When I bring out Puzzles long lead, the golden pops upon her forepaws, ready for anything.

Whether shes searching for a single lost person or multiple victims of catastrophe, search and rescue (SAR) is work that Puzzle is good at and a job beside me that she passionately loves. But Puzzles search work has always been human-specific; part of her training involved proofing her against finding animals. This is a standard for many K9 search-and-rescue teams, who must assure fire, law enforcement, and disaster agencies that the dogs deployed to find a missing child wont alert, that is, signal to the handler, on every pet they pass. But its confusing to neighbors, who often believe a search dog finds anything at any time. I can never ask Puzzle to find missing pets.

Heres the twist. Lost pets find her. Shes got that reputation in the neighborhood, too. Theres something about my golden retriever that attracts stray animals. Friendly, spooked, or simply confused, they seek her out. Its not something Puzzle does; its something she is, something I dont understand and cant explain. Magnet dogs, Ive lately learned such creatures are called. But now is no time to lecture my neighbor about the distinction.

His name is Odie, the young woman tells us as we jog back to her house. And he is very old. Black all over except for gray on his face. She was in the shower. She was in the shower and Odie was there in the bathroom with her, because when she gets out of the shower he likes to lick her wet feet. But someone else in the house was going in and out the front door, and maybe the screen didnt close or something, and Odie mustve slipped past it, because when she got out of the shower he wasnt there, and he was always there, and she knew right away that something was wrong. That was noon or maybe a little later. Shes been searching since then. He never goes out the door. Never. Except he must have. The young woman pauses, says her friendand she hesitates on the wordis out driving around looking for Odie in his car. Shes tried to ask the neighbors. Shes knocked on every door for three blocks. People dont answer their doors here, she says. Why dont people answer their doors? Odie is a very old sort of dachshund. Hes fuzzy, and he has a spine thing and a heart murmur and a deformed windpipe, but he is the sweetest dog, the best dog, and this heat will kill him. And there are coyotes. She has seen them. Could a coyote have gotten him this fast? Jesus. He weighs only nine pounds. Hes been with her since he was six weeks old. She searched the house and the yard and around the block, and shes called and called, but he hasnt come. And Odie always comes when she calls him. He couldnt have gotten far, right? Unless a coyote got him. Or someone took him. Would someone take him? His name is Odie, she repeats, Odie for the cartoon dog in