Lost & Found

By Dulcy B. Hooper | Photo by Richard Hooper

“There’s something I’ve never told you,” Richard said. It was toward the end of a day that had been full of nothing but bad news.

Our beloved dog, Isabel, had been in treatment for lung cancer for the last year and one-half, and we had just received word that there was nothing more to be done.

“We’ve run out of options,” the veterinarian at The Oncology Service (TOS) in Leesburg told us, as tearful as we were. “She has done better than anyone could have anticipated, but we always knew this was a really bad diagnosis.”

Isabel had indeed done amazingly well, losing only a couple of weeks of quality life from the day of her original diagnosis. She had always been as close to a circus dog as any we had ever known — even as a puppy, dazzling everyone with her seemingly effortless ability to fly through the air, fur on end. She routinely entertained us by dancing across the room on her hind legs. Even while undergoing treatment at TOS, she would dart in and out of exam rooms – full of enthusiasm, charm and joy — in search of new friends.

For many years, Richard had been “the one” in Isabel’s life. She rarely let him out of sight and would respond to his voice over all others. Whether she was flying through the air or flitting across a field, Isabel would pivot at the sound of his voice and come rushing back. It was both touching and, admittedly, a slight bit annoying — especially when she scarcely acknowledged my calling out to her unless I had a biscuit in hand.

That devotion had been returned, day in and day out and in so many ways. Just the day before, Richard had carried her around the pond at Franklin Park, one of her favorite places, when she was too weak to make it on her own. We made sure that in her last months that she was able to go to many of her favorite beaches.

“So what is it?” I asked, none too sure I really wanted to know.

“Well, years ago, when we were living in DC, I was on my way to Middleburg when I got a call from the dog pound.” My mind tripped a bit at the sound of such an arcane word and all that it implied, its origins going back to the impoundment of stray livestock.

“They had Isabel,” Richard continued.

“They had Isabel?” I asked. “But how is that possible?”

My head was spinning at the incredulous thought of our fluffy, friendly circus girl of a dog wandering untethered through the busy streets of the inner-city neighborhood that had been our home.

“I have no idea,” Richard said. “She must have slipped out when I left.” “But how could you not have noticed that?” I asked.

Richard shrugged his shoulders.

As the story unfolded, he said that he proceeded on to Middleburg after receiving the call to pick up a couple of friends who would be spending some time with us in DC, and then the three of them headed straight to the “dog pound” to retrieve Isabel.

“They wouldn’t turn her over to me at first,” Richard said, “since I had nothing that indicated that she was my dog.” At some point, Isabel heard his voice and began howling and yelping in a way that she had never done before, or after.

“That’s my dog,” Richard said. While the staff at the Animal Rescue League might not have believed Richard, they apparently had faith in Isabel.

“She was just ecstatic,” Richard said. “She was fine, so we drove home. And on the way, the three of us decided that it was best not to tell you about what had happened. We knew how upset you would be.”

“You’re darned right about that,” I said to myself.

“Ever since the dog pound,” Richard said, again using that alien and slightly disturbing word, “Isabel has viewed me as her savior or rescuer or something.”

“But you were the one who let her out!” I exclaimed. “It was because of you that she was even there in the first place!” “I know,” he said. ML

In memory of Isabel (July 2005 to September 2016) and with gratitude to everyone who goes out of their way to protect and ensure the safety of lost dogs.