It was nine at night by the time I got home and told Kim the story. She tilted her head and stared at me.
Two blue eyes, unblinking.
“You left her out in the middle of nowhere? In the rain?”
“I couldn’t carry her. I was already overloaded and exhausted. I never would have made it out.”
“So you just left her?”
“I built her a shelter.”
“And then you left her.”
I showered, ate dinner and went to bed. There was no conversation, only silence. As I stared at the ceiling fan, all I could see were two dark eyes, unblinking.
My wife woke up shortly after midnight, alone. I was driving south along the coast on my way back to the trailhead. The rain was still pouring and the wind was still blowing. I took a potholed road up into the mountains and pulled off at the trailhead, shouldered my backpack — this time much lighter, since I was carrying only basic survival gear and my sleeping bag — adjusted my headlamp and started up the trail. I slipped often and fell hard twice and thought all the while just what a foolish quest this was. But the two dark eyes haunted me and I kept trudging until I came to the kipuka and the poncho shelter.
I looked around but found nothing. Suddenly, frantic barking came from beneath a stunted ohia tree 15 yards away. I turned and the light from my headlamp illuminated two eyes. I walked toward the tree, but the dog crawled frantically backward into the thick foliage. The closer I moved, the farther away the dog crawled. Afraid she would injure herself, I untied the poncho, spread it out on the ground, lay my sleeping bag on top and crawled in.
I drifted in and out of sleep; each time I woke, I shined the headlamp where the dog had been and each time the still-crouching dog was several feet closer. I was in the twilight zone between reality and dream when I felt something nudging the sleeping bag. Then, a warm tongue lapped the side of my face. I unzipped the sleeping bag and she crawled in with me, shaking violently. I zipped up the bag and held her close. The shaking slowly subsided and the two of us fell asleep, her head next to mine.
I hiked out at first light, carrying the dog in my arms. Back at the truck, I bundled her in beach towels and put her gently on the floor behind the passenger seat. As she rested, I took out the piece of plywood and felt pen I had brought from home and printed, in bold letters:
DOG FOUND. BROWN AND WHITE FEMALE.
I added my home phone number and nailed the plywood to a tree alongside the road.
Kim was waiting when I pulled into our driveway. I handed her the toweled bundle and the dog immediately licked her face. We went inside and Kim called our vet. Four months later, Laka (a name from Hawaiian mythology) — healed, spayed, microchipped and the happiest dog on earth — graduated from obedience school, albeit at the bottom of her class, since she much preferred to chase butterflies and play than to obey commands. Her relationship with our other two dogs — Gypsy, the Brittany, and Penny Lane, the Dachshund — had evolved from daily fireworks to a fragile détente to having her own place on the couch, sandwiched between Gypsy and Penny Lane.
Then the call came. Kim handed me the phone.
“Hello,” I said.
The voice on the other end was male.
“You found my dog. I saw the sign on the side of the road.”
I felt my knees weaken. It had been four months since I found Laka but I had never gone back to remove the plywood sign.
“How long ago did you lose her?” I asked.
“’Bout five months. Got her at the pound. She a scared kinda dog and it was her first hunt. I saw your sign ’bout a month after she run off.”
Five months ago. That meant Laka had survived on her own for a month in a hostile environment, living on vegetation and fetid water.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Pig got her and she get cut up pretty bad. She run away.” “Can you describe her?” I asked.
He described her perfectly, right down to the wounds on her neck and shoulders and her weight of about 18 pounds. My heart sank. I looked over at Laka, lying on the couch between Gypsy and Penny Lane. Three pairs of dark eyes, unblinking.
“I’m sure sorry,” I said. “The dog I found weighs about 45 pounds and she was in great shape when I found her. No wounds at all.”