This is about Freddie and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad weekend.
Freddie is a 3-year-old miniature golden doodle [part golden retriever and part miniature poodle]. You know the kind — the ones that used to be called mutts, but are now designer dogs.
A few weeks ago, Freddie was left at home with his sister and littermate, Lucy, while his mom and dad took a vacation. The terrible part started when the two decided to get a closer look at a skunk. My phone rang at 2:30 a.m. on a Saturday. My mother is 100 years old, and my heart skipped a beat, thinking the nursing home might be calling about her.
“Mom, the dogs got sprayed by a skunk,” said my son, Alex.
“I’m in Florida,” I reminded him, relieved it wasn’t a call about my mother.
The young man who was watching the pups, Zach Albert, had sent a text message in the wee hours of the morning to Alex with the news.
The next day, with the mercury hovering near 32 degrees, Alex and Zach doused the dogs with a mixture of baking soda, hydrogen peroxide and liquid dish soap. It was a horrible experience for Freddie. So he decided it was time to take a hike.
The phone rang again at 7:30 a.m. Sunday.
“Uh, Freddie ran away.”
We have a pet containment system. The dogs’ collars emit a warning signal if they get too close to the edge of the yard. If they wander outside the designated area, they receive a short shock. As a result, Freddie and Lucy have learned to honor the boundaries.
It’s not like Freddie to take off. Even when the battery dies, it takes him (and us) a few days to figure out it’s not working. But his collar, with his license and other information, caught on a bush and slipped off. I like to think he went looking for us because he missed his mom and dad.
When the dogs were younger, I had asked a veterinarian to inject microchips, but he refused, saying it was painful. I didn’t question him, believing he knew best. I have learned since Freddie’s disappearance that the veterinarian was wrong. The microchip, is a radio-frequency identification implant that contains a permanent ID, is no more painful than a simple vaccination.
Back to the story.
I was in Florida, exactly 975.2 miles away from home and unable to search for sweet Freddie. Zach’s kind family was looking for him. Alex was knocking on neighbors’ doors. But no Freddie, who by the way was wearing a sweater because he was shivering after the skunk bath.
And here comes the really cool part: Frustrated and worried about Freddie, I decided to put a post on my Facebook page around 10 a.m. that Sunday.
“Our Freddie is lost. Last seen Saturday noon-ish in southern portion of Green. Has tags, collar, wearing a sweater. Tan, 29-pound miniature golden doodle (part golden retriever part poodle).”
I watched the computer screen. Folks I have never met, like Joanne Spud of Portage Lakes, took to the streets to look for Freddie. People suggested multiple pet lost-and-found sites. Strangers shared with other strangers who shared with more strangers. In a few minutes, from what I can tell, the post had reached more than 1,000 people. I couldn’t keep up with the private messages.
Less than four hours after posting, I received a message that Freddie had been located.
“I’m not sure how to get you in touch with them, but a friend from high school posted this and she has a friend that found your dog,” wrote Andrea Kidder of Tallmadge.
Seconds later came a message from Luke Rychlik, who discovered a very shaken Freddie on his back porch, about a mile from home. The friendly man offered him a warm place to rest until morning, though Freddie opted to stay on his porch, howling.
“I do have some bad news,” Luke said. “He is going to need bathed.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Freddie had been sprayed hours earlier. I figured his nose knew.
Alex thanked Luke, offered him some money (which he declined), and put the pup in his car. Freddie cried when he was reunited with his odoriferous sister.
Thus the conclusion to Freddie’s terrible, horrible, no good, very bad weekend.
Please get your pet micro-chipped. Freddie’s adventure ended well, but it very well could have gone badly.
Big, sloppy kisses to all who helped find him.
Kim Hone-McMahan can be reached at 330-996-3742 or kmcmahan@thebeaconjournal.com. Find her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/kim.honemcmahan1.