Our family adopted a dog last night, who came with the name Sammy. We decided to call her Sammy Smith, an apt explorers name to compliment our other dog’s name, Marco Polo.

Sammy is an adorable mutt, a unique little hybrid between dachsund and mini pinscher with a painted face. The family here consists of me, my partner and a nine year old that I’m gonna call Lil C.  After some discussion we had decided that Marco could benefit from a canine sidekick, and that we could all handle the added responsibility.

Well, Sammy is gone already. So much for being great at helping special need animals. We had her a record breaking 3 hours before she made her big escape.

The past four years of my recovery have helped define who I really am, just at the past three years of little Sammy’s life have shaped her.  Our adopted dog was recently saved in a puppy mill raid. Have you heard about those awful places? They are the canine equivalents of the child sex trade.  Sammy was squashed into a teeny little crate with three other dogs and pimped into birthing three litters of puppies by her third year.

She was never handled by humans in a way other than rough. No biscuits. No walks. No cuddles. No squirrel chasing. No toys.

We were enthusiastic about giving her a whole new life. But we were warned not to spoil her. She needed discipline. No worries, we thought. Even amid the discipline and training, we would warm her numb heart. It’s not that easy with people. It’s not that easy with dogs, either.

But it seemed like we were off to a good start. There was butt sniffing and tail wagging from Marco Polo. Then she came home with us and went near his water bowl. Mr. Dominant had a fit. No big deal, we thought, everyone is adjusting. I cooked dinner with Sammy lodged firmly between my legs. She hesitantly took treats from our hands and acted goofy–somehow perching her skinny body onto the window ledge.

We were all in training.

No matter how she cuddled up to us, any fast approach left her cowering. Approach slowly and from the front,  say her name, let her sniff the hand, don’t crouch–these were our mantras.  It was time for her first walk, to get her on Marco’s schedule.

Lil C wanted the honors. She can’t handle Marco, who is a lightweight, but with muscles of titanium and a stubborness to match–not to mention a squirrel radar that kicks in without notice. Cheerully, our brigade set out around the block. Marco in front, ignoring the new dog. Sammy in back, a super spastic walker, reminding me of the erratic pattern a full balloon takes when the air is released.

And cheerfully we returned home. Sammy seemed hesitant to come in, then she erratically lunged inside. This startled Marco and he kinda went at her. So as I stepped forward to head that off, she suddenly turned and beelined it out the door. How little legs move that fast is beyond me.  My ninja reaction time still didn’t thwart her escape and so off I went into the night. At the end of the block, I came around a corner and headed her off. She peeped out of the bushes, took a look at me, and went dashing back into the night.

Damn.

Our dog has now been lost almost 8x longer than we had her. Friday turned into Saturday as we tentatively crawled through thickets, which housed skunks and cats, but no Sammy. Lil C became scared in one part of the woods and so we all cuddled together later, waking early to use the sunlight. Calls have been made to all the appropriate people and still no sight of her.

Well of course I feel horrible. Afterall I should have closed the door completely. But we all know better than to place blame. Everytime I sit on the porch for a smoke, my gaze goes over to break in the fence where she made her exodus. I’m recognizing that I don’t have the quickest emotional response to situations. I don’t think I’m as numb as Sammy,  but I can’t figure out if it’s bad not to cry about this. Then again, no one else in the family has shed a tear, and they have never been through recovery. They’re just yankees….

But I know that inside we are all bummed. The family (13 people) have begun calling. One of the younger ones, 6, got on the phone and asked, “How do you lose a dog?”

Lil C was first to wonder why she would leave behind such a nice house. I can’t help but think about addictive and dysfunctional personalities.  People rarely take the first hand offered to them. When you become accustomed to a way of life, the alternatives are daunting, even if they are better. And how many of you have tried to reason with addicts?
Healing takes time and repetition. I wish we had more time to defrost her reserve. Hopefully she will turn up and that can happen.