The first night my dog was lost, I called and whistled for him from the back door most of the night. He didn’t belong out there in the woods alone, but at home, with me.

‘Oakley’ had lived with me for five years, a rescued Border Collie mix who thrived on my acreage in the forest. He was my eager companion as I did yard work, skied or walked in the woods. He often had a stick in his mouth, hoping for a game of toss.

That day we had been exploring the woods as snow softly fell. Oakley sniffed around a dilapidated shed and ambled happily after rabbit tracks, returning to me every few minutes.

We started home. Oakley stopped at the old shed and I went on, knowing he would be along momentarily. I called a few times as I walked, and again upon reaching the house. No mental alarms sounded when he didn’t come; he’d be back soon. Even when he hadn’t appeared after I’d had a snack, I expected to find him at the shed, staring intently at something.

But he wasn’t there. My stomach began to churn. I called, whistled, be-gan following his tracks. Again and again I scrabbled through the bush only to find I had followed yet another loop. Daylight waned; my anxiety rose. Helpless, I went inside.

It started to rain. I called, whistled, strained to see through the wet, primordial dark from my back door. First light saw me back at the shed. Oakley’s tracks had washed away and I turned helplessly, not knowing where to search. Any direction could be the wrong direction, and it was impossible to cover the entire vastness before me.

I called, whistled, listened. I hung a sweatshirt on a low bush so he could catch its scent if he came close enough.

For days my life consisted of calling, whistling, lis-tening. I skied the snow-crusted woods, drove the road, scanning for a black and white dog, dead or alive. The temperature plunged. There was a blizzard.
A week, more, passed. I began to look askance at Oakley’s bowls, beds, toys. Was it time to put them away? I found myself calling for him less frequently, and I no longer went into the woods to search. Ten days passed, then 11.

On the 12th afternoon, a familiar yip sounded from the front porch. I raced to the door.

Oakley made a wobbly beeline to his bowls, into which I put a little food and water. He soon finished, then came to say hello. He was horribly skinny.

Several porcupine quills stuck out of his cheek, and he hardly reacted when I removed them. He fell asleep with his head on my lap. I felt gut-deep contentment; my dog was home.

The next day, the vet suggested adding puppy food with its higher caloric content to his diet, to help him regain weight, and said that beyond mild frostbite on his paws he was fine.

Gradually, with frequent small feedings, Oakley began to look and act like himself again. How had he gotten lost? Maybe following a porcupine. What was important was that he was home again. And what was somewhat shaming was that I had given up my search for him, but he had not given up his for me.