Charlie’s chance

Off and on since Ozzy, our elderly standard Aussie, passed, we’ve considered adopting another adult dog. Our mini Aussie, Murky, seemed content being an only dog, but the lack of a playmate meant he wasn’t as active as we knew he should be.

Back in June, I learned about a four-year-old Yellow Lab who needed a new home. Despite knowing that he wasn’t the mellow adult dog we had been hoping for, we decided to give him a chance, as long as he could become a farm dog. His given name, Harley, turned into Charlie, because it was easier to say.

Charlie came to us with no exposure to cats, chickens, or cows. And no experience being allowed to run free; he had mostly been kept in the house or, occasionally, tied up outside.

The first several weeks were a challenging transition. Charlie didn’t know how to be a free dog. He passed the first tests: Not eating our chickens or chasing the cats when we first let him off the leash. He didn’t freak out around the cows. And he got along well with Murky. But Charlie had no concept of independence – he always needed to be where we were. Maybe that’s a Labrador trait, but it’s something we definitely weren’t used to with Aussies. Seventy-five pounds of boundless energy was a lot to have underfoot.

We took Charlie running in the pasture to use up some of his pent-up energy. It seemed like he had four years of restrained life to make up for. He quickly learned to love swimming in the ponds and retrieving sticks. We played fetch with him in the yard. Dan, especially, felt that having a dog to play fetch with fulfilled something that had been previously missing. (Our Aussies have never been fetch dogs.)

For the first couple weeks, Monika slept with Charlie in the entryway, sharing his cushion, to help him calm down. If not, he very loudly let us know that we wasn’t comfortable being alone at night.

In the past month, Charlie finally seemed to be settling in here.

He got into a dead skunk and I made him sleep outside. He found a cozy spot in our shavings bin. Sleeping outside a couple nights seemed to help Charlie find his own independence. Just like that, he didn’t need to Velcro himself to us. And he took to doing zoomies around the yard to expend some of his energy all on his own. I was beginning to think maybe Charlie could be a farm dog after all.

But, that independence proved to be too much. Charlie found that there were enticing scents in the fields beyond our yard and in the ditches and fields on the other side of the road. Within minutes of catching a scent, his long-legged, ground-eating lope would have him leagues away from the yard. We’d call him back and hoped that eventually the excitement of being free would subside.

It didn’t subside soon enough.

Late last night, after a long day of errands, appointments, and prepping to be gone several days for a board meeting, I walked past Charlie’s dog dish on the patio and saw there was still some kibble in it. I knew Daphne had fed him earlier and Charlie always inhaled his kibble.

“Has anyone seen Charlie?” I asked as I set the grocery bags down in the kitchen. Then I realized he hadn’t been there earlier that evening when we were rounding up the Holstein and Jersey who had stormed the front barn gate and went frolicking around the yard. And then Glen realized that Charlie hadn’t been there when he shut the vacuum pump off, trying to lap up the milk that drained from the jar before it could disappear into the catch pipe, a trick Charlie had recently developed.

I put the groceries away and headed back outside to look for Charlie, Monika close behind. With Monika swinging the spotlight, dread grew in my belly as we walked up the driveway to the road. This wasn’t the first time I’d gone looking for missing pets. Living as close to a busy road as we do, the threat to our pets is real and constant.

The first set of larger-animal eyes our spotlight found, down the road near our ag bags, didn’t come closer when we called, but didn’t run away, either. Spooked, we scrambled back to the house and decided to continue the search from inside the safety of the van.

Daphne joined us and we started down the road, spotlight in one hand out the rolled-down window, steering wheel in the other. We drove north for a bit and didn’t find Charlie. We turned around to check the ditches and fields south of our place.

And, then, there he was. A couple yards from our driveway. Half curled in the long ditch grass. Looking almost like he had lain down for a nap. But it was clear that we had only found the shell he’d left behind. Charlie was gone. And except for the abrasion on his forehead, he looked perfectly okay. We’re choosing to believe that he was knocked unconscious and died painlessly. And we’re trying to find comfort in knowing that Charlie had been living his best life these past couple weeks.

What we’re struggling with, though, is why Charlie’s collar was missing when we found him. Did somebody find Charlie before we did and take his collar? I don’t believe Charlie could have removed his collar himself. Beyond that, how could someone hit him and not come tell us? You can’t hit a 75-pound dog and not know it.

It’s bad enough to tragically lose a pet. It’s even worse when the accident leaves you questioning the humanity of your fellow humans.