The Times - Serving Waitsburg, Dayton and the Touchet Valley

Man's Best Friend

T he winter sun had already gone down on the western horizon, but it was still quite light in the hills east of Waitsburg when Dizzy and I went for our run late one afternoon last week.

Several times a week, we pick a different country road to jog. We like Bolles Road. Whoop Em Hollow Road is a favorite. We've been up Lower Hogeye and down Whiskey Creek.

This time, we chose Smith Hollow, following Eighth Street out of town past the cemetery under the eye of Butter Cup and up into the rolling hills with slivered views of the Blue Mountains in the far distance.

This time of year, the landscape is basked in pale shades, the chilly air laced with moisture and the sky stretched under a lavender veil.

After we passed Jake Long's farm, I let Dizzy off the leash and he was off like a shot. A labradoodle-retriever shelter puppy, the Diz is a year and a half now. Not even quite a teenager, you might say.

He spends a lot of time with me at the Times office, so when I let him off his tether, he's like a wound up coil ready to spring free. He races up the road, angles up the banks, runs along the edge of the fields and chases small animals when he gets a chance.

But he never wonders off too far and always circles back eventually to see what's taking me so long to keep up with him. And when I notice a car approaching, he sits by the side of the road when I tell him to.

On this outing, we ran past the county line and began to climb a field road in the fading light. When we turned around to head back, I switch on my LED headlight but soon discovered the batteries weren't exactly fresh and it threw only a faint spot in front of us.

At this midpoint of our run, we had a ways to go and it was getting progressively darker. By the time we passed the Farleys' farm, there was a bit of moonlight and some of Waitsburg's street lights down in the valley.

I couldn't see Dizzy - a jetblack dog on jet-black asphalt - but I could hear him near me until he suddenly accelerated and took off after something in the field to our north.

At first I thought nothing of it. But just to be safe, I called and whistled for him in case he'd get too far away and meet a car on his way back.

I kept running and hollering for him. Then I stopped. He wasn't coming. I turned around with the hope that he'd hear me better and started walking back toward the place where he last ran alongside me.

Still nothing.

I heard dogs bark at the Farleys' place and figured he'd run down there to pester their animals. I walked back to the fence at the edge of the Farleys' land and peered down, called, but saw no movement underneath the bright light near the house.

I headed back to see if I might find him in one of the fields, but realized that would be futile because I had no way of lighting my way. Perhaps he went down to Jake's place. I remembered he has dogs. I'd either see him down there or he'd catch up from behind.

But he wasn't down there either. I decided to press on back to the house, where I could get a good flashlight and the car with its bright lights.

I quickly changed into warmer clothes, borrowed an LED flash light from my friend and neighbor, and returned in the car. I looked around carefully on the way back to Smith Hollow, hoping Dizzy would already be on his way back to the house on Main Street.

But nothing swift moved under the street lights.

I drove back up to the county line, turned the car's headlights into the fields, stopped by the Farleys and by Jake Long, knocked on Beryl Witt's door and drove up to Butter Cup Hill. Three times I went back and forth between home and the county line, peering into fields, brush, yards, lots and driveways to no avail.

By the fourth time, I began to wonder if something happened to him. Perhaps he leaped over a bank in the dark, fell into a culvert or got tangled in barbed wire, or worse, an electric fence.

I eased the car over onto the shoulder next to the field where I'd last seen him and turned off the engine. I rolled down the window. I could hear the distant din of a truck over the hill on Highway 12, and then everything fell silent.

I waited a while to see if I could hear him. Nothing. I got out and began walking the shoulder armed with the LED flashlight. I inspected a large concrete culvert. Nothing.

I crossed the road and searched the bottom of the steep embankment on the other side. Some drops here were at least 10 to 15 feet. I had a vision of Diz sprawled across the ground here waiting to be rescued. But in that case he'd be whining. I heard nothing.

It disturbed me.

What if it turned out he was injured beyond recovery? What if I lost him? I had grown so fond of him despite his sometimes clueless bravado, not to mention all the seat belts he chewed up in the car and the wooden kitchen spoons he devoured at the house.

I couldn't imagine going around delivering the newspaper without him, driving to distant high school sports games with an empty back seat or waking up in the morning without his nuzzle to get me out of bed.

It began to dawn on me what it might mean if I didn't find him that night. Tired, thirsty, hungry and cold, he wouldn't survive. The best I could hope for was that he'd find a farm house to bark at and give the residents a chance to read his tag and call me.

Of course, the next day I would put posters up around town, put an ad in the paper, tell everyone he was missing, but it would already be too late by then unless someone had taken him to their home. With every hour, the chances of finding him alive would dwindle. I had to find my best friend that night. I had to.

I kept searching the bottom of the embankment, threw the light beam down along an electric fence and called his name but there was absolutely nothing. Perhaps I should check in town again.

I was starting to feel depressed. Wisdom has it that dogs usually find their way home, particularly if they've traveled a route with you before.

But Dizzy had never been far from the house by himself. After we lost Lucy, our Airdale, who broke through the invisible fence around the yard and got struck by a car on Main Street, we decided to only let Dizzy out on the leash.

Each time I had gone back home before the night of our run and expected to find him waiting for by the back door, I found no one to greet me.

I thought perhaps this time he would be there. And if not, I'd sleep (or try to sleep) in room downstairs at the back of the house so I could hear him if he found his way back. I pulled up behind the garage and look towards the back door. No Diz.

Disappointed and disheartened, I opened my car door with its squeaky hinges. No sooner had I done so and Dizzy sprung from somewhere around the garage and almost jumped into the driver's seat with me.

Needless to say the reunion was an intensely happy one. The rascal smelled like a freshly tilled field and had what looked like plow stripes of dirt across his back body. But he was back. My best friend was back.

Dizzy was born in May 2010 and adopted from the Blue Mountain Humane Society in Walla Walla.

A labradoodle with some retriever mixed in, The Diz loves to run and fetch.

He was named after a famous jazz trumpeter, Dizzy Gillespie, but his own energy can also make your head spin.