LITTLE BEAR

February 28, 2022

After reading the comments on one particularly poignant “MISSING DOG” post, I did something I rarely do. I made contact with the family and offered to track Little Bear, a strikingly handsome, 14-year-old, blind and deaf gray chow who slipped out of his home undetected late on a Wednesday night. Bear’s people were devastated because their beloved old dog had gone missing, and agreed to let me help them.

Little Bear’s family was sick with worry. They adored their old guy. He was a valued family member, their elder statesman. But judgment runs deep on Social Media, especially on the “Lost Pet” pages. Little Bear’s owners were quickly judged as unfit by the usual collection of inexpert meddlers and voyeurs. They took one look at Little Bear’s photo and said his nails were too long and his hair was too matted. They said he was neglected, that he had no bed and had to lie on a hard floor. They verbally attacked the very people who loved Little Bear like a child.

Little Bear was arthritic and took multiple medications each day to help manage his pain and disrupted sleep habit. Turtles, maybe even snails, moved faster than Bear. My favorite tracking partner, Stacy Gang, and I concluded quickly that Bear had wandered not too far from home. He was probably hunkered down under a shrub or neighbor’s deck, waiting to be found. But he had been gone long enough to have wandered farther, so we couldn’t rule anything out. There had been no recent sightings to steer us one way or the other.

Stacy and I set out on Saturday morning with her two scent hounds, Ivy and Willow. Tracking with dogs is a trip, especially when we’re tracking in deep woods and where every small glen is coyote dining room. We didn’t expect the worst, but we prepared ourselves for the possibility that Little Bear’s soul may have flown to the stars and left his body behind.

Ivy and Willow (photo by Stacy Gang)

We tracked through the woods and fields for several hours before ending for the day. We walked near and far, looking for fur (none) and dog prints (some). We walked across, beside, up, down and through a nearby creek, avoiding the steepest banks and gravitating to the places Bear may have traveled.

While both Stacy and I felt solid in our first attempt to locate Bear, we may have missed our opportunity by not following Willow’s instinct when she told us to explore more carefully the steeper creek bank. We may have walked right past the poor guy on Saturday.

But I don’t think we did and I’ll tell you why in a minute.

We went back out Sunday after the rain, just Stacy and me, no dogs this time. We went far afield first just to see what we could see. We had to satisfy ourselves that the coyotes hadn’t found Little Bear, an old dog who perambulates with great effort and little gain and who could not possibly be far from home. Wherever he was, he was most likely close and downhill from home because that’s how gravity would move him. No way could this geriatric fella walk up hills. He’d walk down and once he achieved the bottom, he’d stay on the flat because dogs, regardless of age, will almost 100% of the time take the path of least resistance.

Dogs also follow their noses, and as smell was the only dependable sense Bear had left, we advised his people to keep the grill going throughout the day and night. Bear most likely smelled that smoked pork shoulder straight away from his meandering path near the creek, but his body couldn’t carry his desire back up the hill. A fresh level of Hell to consider, yes?

Hot tracking tip: Some of the older dogs like Little Bear poop as they walk, dropping poop balls in a line behind them. Bear kindly left us a poop trail leading down the hill which trackers view as a little love letter. “Look, poop balls!” “Aw, poop balls, God love ’em.”

Sorry. Anyway.

Sunday after our first long walkabout, Stacy and I regrouped at the top of the hill where Bear lives with his beloved people. And in flew the messenger, Hawk, who landed on the wire above us. I greeted her politely and thanked her in advance for the message she came to share with us. Stacy stayed in the front yard and watched Hawk while I walked around back to give Bear’s grill master a quick update. “Nothing yet,” I said. “But we’re going back down the hill toward the barn and field and creek. Bear is close, we both feel it.”

When Hawk left her wire perch and flew down the hill, she validated our instincts to revisit the creek that ran through a large culvert in a lovely old farm bottom. That part of the creek bank, where navigable, is steep and mud-slicked. The creek bed isn’t exceptionally deep or wide, but it’s a trick to get down to it. As we walked slowly and carefully along the bank’s edge, I softened my eyes and widened my gaze to see through a curtain of thorns, fallen trees, and thick brush.

Stacy tracked a senior dog a few Decembers ago. The old girl had fallen down a creek bank and was stuck for four days before she was rescued on a cold, dark night. That’s the story Stacy was telling me when I spotted something below and beyond me that looked like a dark tarp, then a small oil drum, and then a pot-bellied pig. I stopped, sharpened my gaze and saw it sway, swaying side to side with small, barely imperceptible movements. One step closer and I knew I was looking at Little Bear’s wide, steel gray head.

“I see him! It’s Bear! I’m going down,” I said as Stacy took off at a dead run to fetch Bear’s people. I slid down the vertical mud bank, then took a second to slow down my breathing. I got low to the ground, then extended my hand so Bear could smell me before going straight on in for him. My need to get this dog out of the creek and into my arms precluded any caution on my part, and it worked out just right. Little Bear gave one quick fear snap and jerk as I carefully pulled him into me before he collapsed into my arms. Dude was relieved to not be standing up any longer, I do believe. Tenacious, tough, and resilient, this ancient spirit was oh so ready for help.

I carried Little Bear a few steps forward and tried to get up the slick mud hill to no avail, so we cuddled on the creek bottom until help arrived. It didn’t take long, but it seemed like an eternity. For a moment, I was concerned that Bear would die in my arms before his people would reach him. I held him against my chest and sang so he would feel some vibration and then I heard a sweet voice above me, making sure we were okay before guiding us to safety.

Stacy passed down a sheet which I wrapped behind Bear’s front legs and around his chest. She took one end, Bear’s person Vince took the other, and together they hoisted him up and out while I pushed from behind. Then Stacy and Vince pulled me up that slippery, steep bank. It took a mighty effort.

Little Bear was taken to the emergency vet immediately. They were amazed at the good shape he was in, considering his ordeal. No broken bones or cuts were found, only a slightly increased temperature due to stress. Bear walked out of the clinic on his own four legs. Slowly, tenuously, bravely.

On that good day, Bear enjoyed an easy spa day at home, including grilled chicken for lunch and a sunbath in the afternoon. He slept soundly and dreamed of his next adventure.

I don’t know how long Little Bear had been standing in that creek, but I believe that’s what saved his life. He may have been on a walkabout for a couple of days before he landed in the creek. The prints we saw further afield looked like they could have been his.

Here’s my theory: It rained Saturday and Sunday, but Bear’s beautiful thick steel gray fur coat wasn’t soaking wet. Nor was he shivering with cold. I think he enjoyed his adventure, ate some deer poop, tried to get back home and became further disoriented, hunkered down in a warm, safe space for another day or two, tried again to make his way back home when he smelled that grill and then fell into the creek Saturday evening while following his nose toward home. My guess is he stood in that creek for no more than 24 hours, and possibly fewer. But, we’ll never know.

What we do know is that the coyotes left him alone down there. They were too busy feasting on deer up above in the glen. Or maybe Hawk asked the Ravens to protect him. Or maybe it was Lily girl, our senior rescue who was euthanized at the emergency vet exactly three years to the day that Little Bear arrived for treatment, who guided him on his big last quest.

It’s all a mystery. I can’t explain it. Here’s what I can say, though, with full confidence. Little Bear did not die alone in a cold creek. He made it home, stayed close to his people and lived his best senior life for six more months before he flew through the rainbow and became a master dog star.