LOST AND FOUND by Melinda Wichmann
“We don’t have time for him. You know how it is.”
The woman pressed the leash into Andy St. John’s hand. It was a cheap nylon thing printed with pink and purple bones.
The dog attached to it looked at the woman, then at Andy, ears up, eyes inquisitive. The woman folded her arms and stepped back, her body language consigning the dog to its fate.
No, Andy thought, I don’t know how it is. If you invited a dog to share your life, you made time.
“He was Brad’s idea.” The woman was clearly willing to throw her husband under the bus to absolve herself of guilt. “We took the kids to see that movie, you know the one about that dog on the SEAL team? Brad went online and found a breeder with a litter of puppies ready to go. That’s how we got Tramp.” She gave a nervous laugh. “But he’s crazy. I don’t think he sleeps. And he snaps at the kids.”
Andy knew the movie. Every ethical Belgian malinois breeder in the country knew the movie. And Tramp? If the kids wanted something out of a Disney cartoon, this dog wasn’t it. She’d shared 20 years, half her life, with malinois. They weren’t for everyone.
“You’ll find him a good home, right? The woman was talking too fast now. “The lady at the vet clinic who gave me your number said you had a lot of experience with these dogs.”
Andy forced her best dealing-with-idiots smile. She’d agreed to meet the woman only because she was afraid if she didn’t, the dog would get dumped at the local shelter, another poor choice sentenced to a cement and chain link existence.
“I’ll contact Midwest Malinois Rescue tonight and get him into a foster home until he’s adopted,” she said. If he’s adopted, she amended silently. Thanks to Hollywood, rescue groups across the country were flooded with mals who turned out to be more than their unsuspecting owners bargained for.
“Okay then. I have to go.” The woman got in her car without a backward glance, leaving Andy and the dog at the edge of the Wal-Mart parking lot. Bored, the dog grabbed the leash and began tugging on it.
Andy pried the leash out of his mouth and studied him. His muzzle and oversized upright triangular ears were black, the rest of his coat was fawn red with a black overlay as though he’d been stroked by a soot-covered hand. He stood about twenty-four inches at the withers, lean as a wraith, all sinew and muscle. He studied her right back and she knew those dark, calculating eyes were taking her measure. The qualities that made the breed an invaluable asset to law enforcement and the military were the same ones that made them a disaster as family pets.
She opened the door of her Jeep. The dog was going to have to ride shotgun since she didn’t have a crate in the back anymore. She’d taken it out five months earlier and stored it in a corner of her garage, unable to bear the emptiness of it.
“Get in,” she said and gestured toward the seat. “And I’m not calling you Tramp. That’s a ridiculous name.” The dog leaped from a standstill into the driver’s seat and Andy shoved in after him. He climbed into the passenger seat without complaint and looked around. Andy wondered if his previous family had ever taken him for a long hike or out for ice cream on a summer evening. She doubted it. The novelty of owning a dog with a mind like a steel trap had probably worn off the same day he chewed the first hole in their drywall out of boredom.
The dog spent the fifteen-minute drive in an explosion of spit and fur and scrabbling toenails, trying to look out all the windows at once. Andy was glad to get home in one piece. She led him inside and unclipped the leash. It felt good to have a dog in the house again, even if it would be only for a few days and even if the dog in question was an undisciplined nut case.
The dog did a quick recon of the kitchen, air scenting his way along the countertops. She picked up a loaf of bread and put it on top of the refrigerator.
“Not my first rodeo,” she informed the dog and stroked his sleek head. He was a handsome creature, not quite a year old, with a build that promised power and stamina for whatever job he might encounter. He desperately needed a job, Andy thought. In a breed that was about as a subtle as a natural disaster, no good ever came of boredom.
As if to prove her point, the dog snapped his jaws twice in fast succession, the characteristic malinois trait known as clacking. Andy had no doubt this was what the woman meant by snapping at the kids. It signaled enthusiasm, impatience, invitation to play or any number of malinois emotions.
The sound pulled her back in time. She heard another dog clacking impatiently in the chill of a spring morning. Steam rose from foam cups of coffee while she studied topographical maps on the tailgate of a pickup truck and got final instructions about the search grid. The reflective North Star Search And Rescue logo on Echo’s harness glowed in the headlights of the vehicles parked along the gravel road. The parents of the missing child huddled nearby, sleep-deprived and frantic. She remembered Echo powering tirelessly along the scent line, heard his alert bark and saw the little girl huddled at the base of the tree, dirt streaking her face, her arms around Echo’s neck as he alternated between barks and licks. It had been their last find. The cancer was already spreading through his body.
Something tugged her sleeve. The dog had grabbed a mouthful of her sweatshirt and was gnawing happily.
“I am not a chew toy,” she said firmly and removed her shirt from his teeth. “Let’s go for a walk.” A little exercise would burn off some of that energy but damned if she was walking him on that rinky-dink nylon leash from the pet store.
Echo’s lead hung on a hook by the back door. She’d been unable to put it away with the rest of his things, as if she left it there he wasn’t really gone. She felt pressure building at the back of her throat as she lifted the softly worn leather from the peg but pushed it away.
The late September twilight was cool. Andy could hear the marching band strike up the fight song at the high school football field several blocks away. She hadn’t been for a walk in months. She’d tried a couple of times but the emptiness at her side was only a reminder of her loss. She could walk with friends but that was awkward because they all had dogs. She heard their unspoken question like they were shouting it. When are you getting another dog? She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready. Echo had barely been diagnosed before he was gone. Hemangiosarcoma, the vet said. The grief was still raw as broken glass.
There was no time to think about anything but the crazy dog ricocheting around at the end of the leash. He dashed back and forth, sniffing enthusiastically, then charging in the opposite direction. Andy laughed at his exuberance in spite of the potential to dislocate her shoulders. His delight in the simple joy of a walk was contagious.
“Hi, Andy!” She looked up to see her neighbor, Carol Meyer, approaching with her Pembroke Welsh corgi, Abigail. “I didn’t know you got a new dog.”
“I didn’t,” Andy said. “He’ll be going to a foster home as soon as Mal Rescue can take him.”
The two dogs sniffed noses briefly, then began to spin and pounce with the delirious joy of finding another of their species.
“He reminds me of Echo,” Carol said as she scrambled to untangle the leash.
“He’s nothing like Echo.” The words came out with more force than Andy intended. Echo had been quietly intense, serious, focused. This dog was a lunatic. She tried to lighten the moment. “If he has any manners, they’re all bad.” Now the dog had Abigail’s leash in his mouth. “We’d better keep going. Walking him is kind of labor intensive.”
Forty-five minutes later it was full dark, sweat was trickling down her back and the dog showed no signs of tiring. He was a social creature though, greeting other people and dogs with a complete lack of anything resembling social graces. She’d forgotten how many people in the neighborhood walked their dogs in the evening. She missed connecting with them.
When they got home, Andy turned the dog loose in the house. If his abysmal leash manners were any indication, she doubted his house manners were any better. She also doubted anyone had ever taken the time to teach him. She poured herself a glass of wine, which she felt she deserved, and called Val Thompson, the coordinator for Midwest Malinois Rescue.
“So good to hear from you!” Val’s voice boomed over the line. “I was so sorry to hear about Echo. Damned cancer. Are you still with North Star Search and Rescue?”
“I took a leave of absence,” Andy said firmly and moved ahead. “I picked up an owner surrender tonight. Can you guys take him?”
There was a brief silence.
“Damn. All of our foster homes are at capacity right now. Can you hold onto him until a spot opens up?”
A thousand reasons why she couldn’t jammed her throat. The dog was rolling around on his back, clacking his jaws at random while apparently trying, and failing, to catch his tail. He looked deranged. Sensing Andy’s preoccupation, he righted himself and trotted out of the room.
“Sure. No problem,” she said. A crash resounded from another part of the house and within seconds, the dog flew through the room with a pair of underwear clamped gleefully in his jaws. “I gotta go.”
***
Her phone pinged with a text three days later and Andy picked up the device to read the message. It was an automated reminder of North Star Search and Rescue’s monthly team training session. The group would gather at a local conservation area to set up searches for the dogs and discus individual training protocols.
She missed the fellowship of the group. Missed the teasing and off-color jokes and the adrenaline rush of teamwork. Missed knowing an elderly dementia patient was safely back home or a small child was in his parents’ arms because of her dog. She wanted to feel rain on her face, to breathe in cold snowy air and above all, she wanted to hear her dog bark to indicate a live find.
But she didn’t have a dog anymore.
Okay, she had a dog.
But he wasn’t her dog.
He wasn’t anyone else’s either.
She looked through the window into the backyard. The dog was leaping up to bite apples off low-hanging tree branches.
And he was a complete menace.
She put the phone down without replying.
***
The dog routinely emptied her laundry hamper and strung the contents through the house. He ate a stick of butter she left unguarded on the counter. He joyfully shredded the toilet paper into confetti. To his credit, once Andy scolded him for tearing something up, he didn’t do it again. He found something new to tear up. No matter how much exercise she gave him, he was a whirlwind of energy seeking an outlet.
“You need a job,” she said and took him on long, rambling jaunts around town twice a day, rain or shine. They went to the park, where he insisted on leaping onto the ancient merry-go-round. She sat next to him with an arm around his withers and spun it with her foot, laughing as he leaned against her, his tail wagging in canine ecstasy. They hiked local walking paths, going off the trail to explore creek beds and meadows.
He met teenage girls who dissolved into bubble gum scented cooing as they knelt to pet him and a toddler who patted his muzzle with little drunken butterfly hands. He wagged and licked and sniffed euphorically, delighted with every new person he met. Since everyone asked his name, she started calling him Cannon, “As in loose cannon,” she emphasized.
She came home from work on her lunch break and threw balls for him in the back yard until her shoulder ached, memories blowing through her mind like hot summer wind.
He’s not Echo, she told herself firmly and called Val again to see if any foster homes had opened up.
***
One week later, fosters were still unavailable and the dog was still nuts. When he wasn’t bouncing off the walls, Cannon attached himself to her like a furry shadow. He followed her into the bathroom. He slept on the bed with a paw draped over her ankle at night.
After their Saturday morning hike, Andy took her coffee out to the cool sunshine on the patio. Cannon circled her, clacking his teeth in anticipation of playing ball. Andy saw her chances for a quiet cup of coffee vanishing. Their three-mile trek at sunrise hadn’t slowed him in the least.
“Go find your ball,” she said, waving at the full acre of back yard with its thick blanket of fallen leaves. “There’s one out there somewhere. Go find it.”
She sipped her coffee while the dog began racing around at random. She figured she had about a minute before he got frustrated and unable to find the ball, came back to pester her again.
As Andy watched, Cannon’s reckless charge slowed. He paused to air scent, then began moving in tightening concentric circles, sniffing with single-minded focus. Andy forgot about her coffee. The dog continued working, stopping occasionally to re-orient on the scent until finally, he dove into the leaves and came up with his prize. He stood still for a minute, etched in the crisp autumn light and Andy could see the whirlwind of joy spinning around him.
For the first time since he’d arrived, she looked at him without seeing Echo. He was more than a little over the top but he was everything she wanted for a search and rescue partner. He wasn’t Echo but he didn’t need to be.
She knelt in the leaves and Cannon galloped to her, chomping happily on the ball. With his typical disregard for personal space, he knocked her on her butt. Righting herself, Andy buried her face in his fur. Her heart was very full.
“You are an absolute menace,” she whispered against his muzzle. “But you’re my menace now. You just got a job.”
THE END
“We don’t have time for him. You know how it is.”
The woman pressed the leash into Andy St. John’s hand. It was a cheap nylon thing printed with pink and purple bones.
The dog attached to it looked at the woman, then at Andy, ears up, eyes inquisitive. The woman folded her arms and stepped back, her body language consigning the dog to its fate.
No, Andy thought, I don’t know how it is. If you invited a dog to share your life, you made time.
“He was Brad’s idea.” The woman was clearly willing to throw her husband under the bus to absolve herself of guilt. “We took the kids to see that movie, you know the one about that dog on the SEAL team? Brad went online and found a breeder with a litter of puppies ready to go. That’s how we got Tramp.” She gave a nervous laugh. “But he’s crazy. I don’t think he sleeps. And he snaps at the kids.”
Andy knew the movie. Every ethical Belgian malinois breeder in the country knew the movie. And Tramp? If the kids wanted something out of a Disney cartoon, this dog wasn’t it. She’d shared 20 years, half her life, with malinois. They weren’t for everyone.
“You’ll find him a good home, right? The woman was talking too fast now. “The lady at the vet clinic who gave me your number said you had a lot of experience with these dogs.”
Andy forced her best dealing-with-idiots smile. She’d agreed to meet the woman only because she was afraid if she didn’t, the dog would get dumped at the local shelter, another poor choice sentenced to a cement and chain link existence.
“I’ll contact Midwest Malinois Rescue tonight and get him into a foster home until he’s adopted,” she said. If he’s adopted, she amended silently. Thanks to Hollywood, rescue groups across the country were flooded with mals who turned out to be more than their unsuspecting owners bargained for.
“Okay then. I have to go.” The woman got in her car without a backward glance, leaving Andy and the dog at the edge of the Wal-Mart parking lot. Bored, the dog grabbed the leash and began tugging on it.
Andy pried the leash out of his mouth and studied him. His muzzle and oversized upright triangular ears were black, the rest of his coat was fawn red with a black overlay as though he’d been stroked by a soot-covered hand. He stood about twenty-four inches at the withers, lean as a wraith, all sinew and muscle. He studied her right back and she knew those dark, calculating eyes were taking her measure. The qualities that made the breed an invaluable asset to law enforcement and the military were the same ones that made them a disaster as family pets.
She opened the door of her Jeep. The dog was going to have to ride shotgun since she didn’t have a crate in the back anymore. She’d taken it out five months earlier and stored it in a corner of her garage, unable to bear the emptiness of it.
“Get in,” she said and gestured toward the seat. “And I’m not calling you Tramp. That’s a ridiculous name.” The dog leaped from a standstill into the driver’s seat and Andy shoved in after him. He climbed into the passenger seat without complaint and looked around. Andy wondered if his previous family had ever taken him for a long hike or out for ice cream on a summer evening. She doubted it. The novelty of owning a dog with a mind like a steel trap had probably worn off the same day he chewed the first hole in their drywall out of boredom.
The dog spent the fifteen-minute drive in an explosion of spit and fur and scrabbling toenails, trying to look out all the windows at once. Andy was glad to get home in one piece. She led him inside and unclipped the leash. It felt good to have a dog in the house again, even if it would be only for a few days and even if the dog in question was an undisciplined nut case.
The dog did a quick recon of the kitchen, air scenting his way along the countertops. She picked up a loaf of bread and put it on top of the refrigerator.
“Not my first rodeo,” she informed the dog and stroked his sleek head. He was a handsome creature, not quite a year old, with a build that promised power and stamina for whatever job he might encounter. He desperately needed a job, Andy thought. In a breed that was about as a subtle as a natural disaster, no good ever came of boredom.
As if to prove her point, the dog snapped his jaws twice in fast succession, the characteristic malinois trait known as clacking. Andy had no doubt this was what the woman meant by snapping at the kids. It signaled enthusiasm, impatience, invitation to play or any number of malinois emotions.
The sound pulled her back in time. She heard another dog clacking impatiently in the chill of a spring morning. Steam rose from foam cups of coffee while she studied topographical maps on the tailgate of a pickup truck and got final instructions about the search grid. The reflective North Star Search And Rescue logo on Echo’s harness glowed in the headlights of the vehicles parked along the gravel road. The parents of the missing child huddled nearby, sleep-deprived and frantic. She remembered Echo powering tirelessly along the scent line, heard his alert bark and saw the little girl huddled at the base of the tree, dirt streaking her face, her arms around Echo’s neck as he alternated between barks and licks. It had been their last find. The cancer was already spreading through his body.
Something tugged her sleeve. The dog had grabbed a mouthful of her sweatshirt and was gnawing happily.
“I am not a chew toy,” she said firmly and removed her shirt from his teeth. “Let’s go for a walk.” A little exercise would burn off some of that energy but damned if she was walking him on that rinky-dink nylon leash from the pet store.
Echo’s lead hung on a hook by the back door. She’d been unable to put it away with the rest of his things, as if she left it there he wasn’t really gone. She felt pressure building at the back of her throat as she lifted the softly worn leather from the peg but pushed it away.
The late September twilight was cool. Andy could hear the marching band strike up the fight song at the high school football field several blocks away. She hadn’t been for a walk in months. She’d tried a couple of times but the emptiness at her side was only a reminder of her loss. She could walk with friends but that was awkward because they all had dogs. She heard their unspoken question like they were shouting it. When are you getting another dog? She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready. Echo had barely been diagnosed before he was gone. Hemangiosarcoma, the vet said. The grief was still raw as broken glass.
There was no time to think about anything but the crazy dog ricocheting around at the end of the leash. He dashed back and forth, sniffing enthusiastically, then charging in the opposite direction. Andy laughed at his exuberance in spite of the potential to dislocate her shoulders. His delight in the simple joy of a walk was contagious.
“Hi, Andy!” She looked up to see her neighbor, Carol Meyer, approaching with her Pembroke Welsh corgi, Abigail. “I didn’t know you got a new dog.”
“I didn’t,” Andy said. “He’ll be going to a foster home as soon as Mal Rescue can take him.”
The two dogs sniffed noses briefly, then began to spin and pounce with the delirious joy of finding another of their species.
“He reminds me of Echo,” Carol said as she scrambled to untangle the leash.
“He’s nothing like Echo.” The words came out with more force than Andy intended. Echo had been quietly intense, serious, focused. This dog was a lunatic. She tried to lighten the moment. “If he has any manners, they’re all bad.” Now the dog had Abigail’s leash in his mouth. “We’d better keep going. Walking him is kind of labor intensive.”
Forty-five minutes later it was full dark, sweat was trickling down her back and the dog showed no signs of tiring. He was a social creature though, greeting other people and dogs with a complete lack of anything resembling social graces. She’d forgotten how many people in the neighborhood walked their dogs in the evening. She missed connecting with them.
When they got home, Andy turned the dog loose in the house. If his abysmal leash manners were any indication, she doubted his house manners were any better. She also doubted anyone had ever taken the time to teach him. She poured herself a glass of wine, which she felt she deserved, and called Val Thompson, the coordinator for Midwest Malinois Rescue.
“So good to hear from you!” Val’s voice boomed over the line. “I was so sorry to hear about Echo. Damned cancer. Are you still with North Star Search and Rescue?”
“I took a leave of absence,” Andy said firmly and moved ahead. “I picked up an owner surrender tonight. Can you guys take him?”
There was a brief silence.
“Damn. All of our foster homes are at capacity right now. Can you hold onto him until a spot opens up?”
A thousand reasons why she couldn’t jammed her throat. The dog was rolling around on his back, clacking his jaws at random while apparently trying, and failing, to catch his tail. He looked deranged. Sensing Andy’s preoccupation, he righted himself and trotted out of the room.
“Sure. No problem,” she said. A crash resounded from another part of the house and within seconds, the dog flew through the room with a pair of underwear clamped gleefully in his jaws. “I gotta go.”
***
Her phone pinged with a text three days later and Andy picked up the device to read the message. It was an automated reminder of North Star Search and Rescue’s monthly team training session. The group would gather at a local conservation area to set up searches for the dogs and discus individual training protocols.
She missed the fellowship of the group. Missed the teasing and off-color jokes and the adrenaline rush of teamwork. Missed knowing an elderly dementia patient was safely back home or a small child was in his parents’ arms because of her dog. She wanted to feel rain on her face, to breathe in cold snowy air and above all, she wanted to hear her dog bark to indicate a live find.
But she didn’t have a dog anymore.
Okay, she had a dog.
But he wasn’t her dog.
He wasn’t anyone else’s either.
She looked through the window into the backyard. The dog was leaping up to bite apples off low-hanging tree branches.
And he was a complete menace.
She put the phone down without replying.
***
The dog routinely emptied her laundry hamper and strung the contents through the house. He ate a stick of butter she left unguarded on the counter. He joyfully shredded the toilet paper into confetti. To his credit, once Andy scolded him for tearing something up, he didn’t do it again. He found something new to tear up. No matter how much exercise she gave him, he was a whirlwind of energy seeking an outlet.
“You need a job,” she said and took him on long, rambling jaunts around town twice a day, rain or shine. They went to the park, where he insisted on leaping onto the ancient merry-go-round. She sat next to him with an arm around his withers and spun it with her foot, laughing as he leaned against her, his tail wagging in canine ecstasy. They hiked local walking paths, going off the trail to explore creek beds and meadows.
He met teenage girls who dissolved into bubble gum scented cooing as they knelt to pet him and a toddler who patted his muzzle with little drunken butterfly hands. He wagged and licked and sniffed euphorically, delighted with every new person he met. Since everyone asked his name, she started calling him Cannon, “As in loose cannon,” she emphasized.
She came home from work on her lunch break and threw balls for him in the back yard until her shoulder ached, memories blowing through her mind like hot summer wind.
He’s not Echo, she told herself firmly and called Val again to see if any foster homes had opened up.
***
One week later, fosters were still unavailable and the dog was still nuts. When he wasn’t bouncing off the walls, Cannon attached himself to her like a furry shadow. He followed her into the bathroom. He slept on the bed with a paw draped over her ankle at night.
After their Saturday morning hike, Andy took her coffee out to the cool sunshine on the patio. Cannon circled her, clacking his teeth in anticipation of playing ball. Andy saw her chances for a quiet cup of coffee vanishing. Their three-mile trek at sunrise hadn’t slowed him in the least.
“Go find your ball,” she said, waving at the full acre of back yard with its thick blanket of fallen leaves. “There’s one out there somewhere. Go find it.”
She sipped her coffee while the dog began racing around at random. She figured she had about a minute before he got frustrated and unable to find the ball, came back to pester her again.
As Andy watched, Cannon’s reckless charge slowed. He paused to air scent, then began moving in tightening concentric circles, sniffing with single-minded focus. Andy forgot about her coffee. The dog continued working, stopping occasionally to re-orient on the scent until finally, he dove into the leaves and came up with his prize. He stood still for a minute, etched in the crisp autumn light and Andy could see the whirlwind of joy spinning around him.
For the first time since he’d arrived, she looked at him without seeing Echo. He was more than a little over the top but he was everything she wanted for a search and rescue partner. He wasn’t Echo but he didn’t need to be.
She knelt in the leaves and Cannon galloped to her, chomping happily on the ball. With his typical disregard for personal space, he knocked her on her butt. Righting herself, Andy buried her face in his fur. Her heart was very full.
“You are an absolute menace,” she whispered against his muzzle. “But you’re my menace now. You just got a job.”
THE END