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The Family Room by Michelle Martin

September 28, 2008

Lost and found

When I came home from my morning run the other day, my usual quota of dogs had doubled.

Playing in the yard were Polly, our 2-yearold mutt, weighing in at about 45 pounds on a wiry body that can seeming run forever without getting tired, and a little white puffball, something like a bichon frise, with a collar but no tags.

The little dog had trotted up to Polly shortly after we started our run, less than a block from home, but I had never seen him before and didn’t know where he belonged.

Polly lunged at him, more in play than in aggression. There was no growling or snapping, so the little dog apparently decided she wasn’t dangerous, and decided to join us.

I’ve been walking or running with dogs in my North Side neighborhood for more than 15 years, and I’ve seen my share of strays. Usually, they follow us for a block or two, but they stick pretty close to home.

This dog didn’t. Polly trotted just ahead of me to my left; our hanger-on trotted just behind me to my right, close enough that if I didn’t turn my head all the way, I couldn’t see him.

After a few blocks, when it became clear he was in for the duration, and we were approaching busy intersections, I made sure Polly didn’t get too close to him and spook him into the street, and that we had enough time to all cross the streets together.

I was hoping that when we got back to where the dog found us, he would recognize home and leave.

But he didn’t.

He followed us for two miles, back to our yard.

That was when my husband came out and pointed out the obvious — he belonged to somebody, and we couldn’t keep him. My thought was to take him to Animal Care and Control, in case he had a microchip, but my husband pointed out that whoever owned him was probably looking in the neighborhood, and would rather not have to make the trip to 27th and Western. He said to just take the dog back to where I found it, leave it there.

That was easier said than done. I did carry the dog back to the corner where he first approached us, without Polly tagging along, and put him down and told him in a stern voice to go home. Often, speaking aggressively to a stray is enough to make them go where they feel safest.

But he just trotted at my heels back towards my house, and I knew I couldn’t leave him there.

Just then, a car pulled up, the driver opened the door, and yelled, “That’s my dog!” He crouched down and opened his arms and the dog ran to him.

“My wife’s been crying all night,” the man said, before closing the door and driving away.

In that moment, I was reminded of the parable of the lost sheep and how the shepherd will search for the one who is lost. I also was reminded that we are our brothers’ and sisters’ keepers. Legally, I had no responsibility to the little lost dog or his owners. But I knew the dog felt more secure with me than alone, and I knew someone was probably looking for him, so I had a responsibility to keep him safe.

I’m glad that he found his way home.

Martin is assistant editor of the Catholic New World. Contact her at [email protected].