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In the spirit of Susan Orlean’s recent “Lost Dog” piece in The New Yorker, I feel compelled to tell my own lost dog story. Actually I have two, a bonus for the reader, extra credit for me. 

But unlike the owners in Orlean’s tale, I didn’t leave my dog in the car with the key in the ignition, the engine running, and the air conditioning on. I can’t imagine how anyone could do such a thing and not expect bad behavior to follow. I once left my dog in my car with the windows open while I ran a quick errand in Marin County. Within minutes the San Rafael police were in the parking lot, ready to impound my car and arrest me. On the flip side, I have seen a baby locked in a running Land Cruiser on Piedmont Avenue while the driver shopped at A. G. Ferrari’s. I’m not defending my behavior. I’m just pointing out a difference between police workloads in Alameda and Marin counties.  

Years ago, just after my husband’s bicycling accident, an acquaintance gave me a dog. (Note to readers: do not give someone a dog after their husband has returned from the hospital a C-4 quadriplegic.) I was too distracted by other, more important things to return the gift. Instead, I gave the pooch a new name and let her natural curls grow wild. She’s a smart little dog, a miniature Schnauzer, who hates cats and craves affection. From the beginning of our relationship Whiskers has been my constant companion, my substitute bedmate, my one true love.  

But one day Whiskers disappeared. I searched the neighborhood, and learned she had been sighted near Children’s Hospital. Like the distraught dog owners in Orlean’s story, I posted Lost Dog signs, ran an ad in a local newspaper, visited the pound, and berated myself for not being a better mom.  

Fifteen days went by without a trace of Whiskers, and then suddenly there was a breakthrough. I received an e-mail from a woman who said she thought she had found my dog. I called her, but it turned out she didn’t have Whiskers. What she had though was nothing short of a serendipitous miracle. She had read in the Montclarion, under the heading “Found Items” an announcement that someone had found an undersized Schnauzer near Oakland’s Children’s Hospital. “I thought your ad matched this one,” she explained. “Perhaps you should call the number listed.” I did so and found Whiskers ensconced on a llama farm in eastern Contra Costa County.  

I drove the hundred mile round-trip to get her. She was living in rural utopia, soaked in perfume, adorned with pink ribbons, and surrounded by llamas. She was not excited about returning to North Oakland. But back to Oakland she came and I took better precautions to keep her in check, or so I thought. 

Several months later I walked with her to Temescal Pool and left her outside while I swam. When I returned to the place where she was tied, she was gone. I scoured the neighborhood, made posters, and ran another Lost Dog ad. Two days later a woman called and asked me a peculiar question. “Next time you go away,” she said, “can I take care of your dog?” “My dog is lost,” I cried. “No she’s not,” she replied. “She’s sittin’ across the street from my apartment.” “Where?” I asked. “37th Street,” she answered, “right off Telegraph Avenue.”  

I jumped in my car and headed down to 37th, and there was Whiskers, hanging out on the corner, freshly washed and groomed, looking as if she was waiting for me. I scooped her in my arms and thanked the finder. I dished out a second reward and took my doggie home. Another lesson learned. My baby requires a bomb shelter to keep her safe, or maybe I just need to use common sense. No more car trips to Marin, or walks to Temescal Pool. I built a fence around my house, and placed a gate across the wheelchair ramp. These are the sacrifices you must make when you have a dog that’s irresistible.