The Dog Lady Blog

Franny is a black and tan coon hound that I rescued last year from a kill shelter in southern Indiana. She is beautiful and loving but came with some serious neuroses. She'd belonged to a seemingly sadistic hunter; she was clinically skeletal (most hunters like to "keep 'em lean so they'll hunt harder") and she expected to be whacked every time you approached her. Even if you offered her savory treats, she ducked, cowered and took off. About three months ago, she finally started to accept food from my hand, allow me to gently brush her and now greets me happily whenever I return from errands in town.

Saturday, June 20, around 10:30 am, I was leaving to pick an elderly friend of mine, Ute (from Germany), to take her out for coffee and danish. I went zipping up my drive, as I must, since the dogs chase me out every time I split (believe me, if I'm poky, they'll follow me all the way to the main road!). This day, as I began the harrier-like ascent up my crazy steep driveway, Franny came darting out from the woods, right in front of my Tundra. I braked so hard that I spun off into the right hand ravine, stopping at a 45 degree angle. I jumped out of my truck but Franny took off whimpering back into the woods. I ran into the thick of the brush but couldn't keep up with her--the density of the foliage is at rain forest level. I went back to my truck and thought I should cancel Ute (she'd be terribly disappointed since waiting all week for our 'kaffeeklatsch')and stay at home, get a machete and go hack my way through the brush and try to find Franny. Having gone through this with a few other dogs (most of whom survived), I knew deep down that it's always up to them to return to the pack if they survived the unintentional wallop of the Tundra.

...I went ahead to Ute's place and told her what had happened. She offered to fore go the pastry party and instead suggested that she come back with me to my place and help me look for Franny. The sentiment was sweet but the 800 foot hills with unforgiving brush combined with the 92* heat was no place for a geriatric Fraulein. I got back to my place a couple of hours later but no sign of Franny. A long night ensued because I tossed and turned through most of it.

Sunday, no Franny. Monday and Tuesday, still no Franny. Wednesday I began to imagine the worst and my imagination can be awfully visceral. Thursday morning I left for errands; the post office, grocery and laundry. I returned home around 1pm and entering the camper with one of the baskets of clean dog blankets, I started toward my bedroom. Out of the room, I hear a thumping noise which I immediately recognized: it was Franny's tail hitting the floor as it does when she wags it while laying on her side. FRANNY! She was back! I dropped to the floor and examining her I could see she was scraped up from where the tires had caught her six days earlier. Thankfully, though, she was not maimed and while she whined a bit, I think it was a combination of happiness and pain. She definitely was not mortally wounded.

Today, the day after her return, she's eating roast beast from my hand, laying her head in my lap as I sit with her on the floor and earlier she followed me around the camper as I did chores, cleaning up my kitchen and living room. She's happy, relaxed and healing. Now my imagination rests; no more nightmare-ish visions blowing my mind. I didn't know I loved her so much. Isn't it awful how sometimes we have to be 'walloped' ourselves, metaphysically speaking, in order to see more clearly? We're such a crazy species, we take so much for granted. My goal is to be the good human my dogs think I am.