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Last Dog on the Hill: The Extraordinary Life of Lou, by Steve Duno. (St. Martin’s, June 2010).

The moving story of the author’s adopted Rottweiler mix Lou, a free-thinking heroic dog who changed his life forever.

“If Jack Reacher had a dog, he’d be Lou. If Jack Reacher was a dog, he’d be Lou.” — Lee Child

Excerpt from Chapter One:

“The essential crime committed against all dog owners is born of the love we hold for them, which, like the love of a child, runs deep.  No parent should have to bury a child, they say, but that is what we dog owners must do, not once, but time after time, throughout our lives. While we remain unchangeable to their sweet eyes, they run from birth to the grave in an instant of our own measure.  They burn like kindling, and though we know we can never replace one dog with another, we keep trying, in hopes of reviving hints of some great dog gone by.  No; they are not children we bury.  But dogs like Lou come close.  They come very, very close.”

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“Scent of the Missing: Love and Partnership with a Search and Rescue Dog” is now available in bookstores and from online book retailers.

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SAR dogs must be independent thinkers even as they are collaborative partners, should exhibit high drive for the job, while at the same time possess the physical and psychological stamina the work may demand.  They should be communicative, confident and polite.  Focused on task and still situationally aware. Stubborn when they have to be.  Obedient when they don’t want to be.  It’s a right mix of sometimes conflicting energies, and we come to young dogs with a handful of aptitude tests and a whole lot of hope.

Some likable dogs don’t make it through the training.  Some unexpected dogs shine.  And we continue to learn that many of these dogs possess capabilities we’re only beginning to understand — gifts of nose and soul and smarts.  SAR dog candidates represent a variety of breeds and mixed breeds, and while there are SAR theorists who believe in a “best” breed for the job, other handlers and trainers offer proof that drive and talent may spring from surprising sources.

I worked ground SAR for three years before I trained a dog of my own, running as an assistant beside dog-and-handler units from my own team and, on large-scale searches, with other teams from across the country.  I am grateful for that apprenticeship and the years of opportunity to witness experienced partners in action, often in horrible conditions.  I remember those handlers getting out there, getting in the thick of things, following a dog in trust.  Though I don’t know all their backstories (and would like to), somewhere in their history these handlers connected with a pup, a youth, or a last-chance dog scheduled for euthanasia and said, “This one,” and they gave up something of themselves to commit to canine partners.

And those dogs, I think of them often, too.  Since I’ve made a career of following search canines, in memory I see a lot of dog butts running, a whole population of waving tails.  The Border Collies, Belgian Malinois, German Shepherds, Weimaraners, Labrador Retrievers, Roughcoat Collies, Coonhounds, Belgian Tervurens, Golden Retrievers, Flatcoat Retrievers, Bloodhounds, Huskies, Standard Poodles, Boxers, Beagles and Pit Bull Terriers, and the solid, striped or spotty mixed breeds.  Many of the dog teams that taught me would have retired by now, and some of the dogs from those years must certainly have died.  But it doesn’t take much to remember their collective power and their tremendous grace — at a word, all those dogs that lept into disaster as though their own lives depended on it, rather than the lives of human others.

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But in 2008 and 2009, just months apart, all three were diagnosed with a life-threatening cancer. I don’t have words enough to show how much they taught us during that fighting time. We teammates came to it all second-hand, of course, when they’d found the lumps or got the hard phone calls after days of waiting, and they sent us emails and later, when they could bear it, stood among us in a state of eclipse, Belle alone unknowing about the pitched battle going on inside her. (Or not. Perhaps dogs are wiser in these matters than we know.) We told them we were there for them, and we were, but behind every update from Cindi or Ellen that spelled out treatment and uncertain prognosis was perhaps a condition of soul impossible for those of us outside to understand – the bottomless fear, the sense of betrayal that must come when one’s own body raises up an enemy.

Belle had surgery. Cindi had surgery, then chemotherapy, then radiation. Ellen had chemo so aggressive it almost killed her, then surgery and radiation to follow. As they were able, all three continued to work search during the process, shrugging away their own shadows, the women laughing wryly about lost hair.

Our team has an attendance requirement, and though every consideration was given for her illness, against all expectations Cindi maintained attendance. She and Belle trained and worked in 100-degree days, post-surgery. More resolute than foolhardy, Cindi was smart, but still she was out there. She watched her dog’s signals, metered their strength, did not deploy when her own body, or Belle’s, demanded it. Ellen took on roles she could manage when she could no longer feel her feet, a side effect of chemotherapy, working an eight-hour search in heavy rain just a week before her own surgery. She returned to the team three weeks after that operation, too weak to run in the field but strong enough to work in the command post.

I know there were terrible days for the three of them, perhaps some of those days shared with us. We watched them go white sometimes, or tremble a little when they got in their cars to leave. It was difficult, loving them and admiring them and wishing, as millions of other loving bystanders wish, that we could somehow intercede and take this all away.

But good news was coming. About the time that Ellen’s surgeon and oncologist pronounced a conditional all-clear, Cindi and Belle, too, were given word that they appeared to have beaten the cancer. It was time to celebrate, which we did as a group with high-fives and backslaps, and which they did, I’m sure, quite privately.

It was also time for me to begin a three-month career of deceit.

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During the period of her treatment, Ellen had begun watching Ace of Cakes on the Food Network. A professional pilot, she had, on a whim, decided to widen her skill set and go to pastry school the year before. The cancer diagnosis landed mid-semester spring 2009, forcing her to drop out altogether when treatment protocol conflicted with her scheduled classes. Reeling from the early days of chemotherapy and unable to taste much food, she was still able to watch the staff of Charm City Cakes, Baltimore, and appreciate their skill, creativity, and occasional perverse sense of humor. She appreciated the community engagement there, too — the charity events, the episodes featuring Make a Wish recipients learning how to pipe icing. Ellen watched the new episodes. She watched the re-runs. She began using words like gum paste and fondant in telephone conversations. Once she said “Dragée,” and she seemed to know what it meant. I had to look it up.

I formed a plan. Knowing that Scent of the Missing would release in 2010 and that some kind of book release party would probably happen, I told Ellen that if she’d beat this cancer, I’d order a cake from Charm City Cakes for the spring 2010 book party, and she could go with me for the design consult and choose the flavor. We’ll go to Baltimore in November, I said. Claim the victory. Make a weekend of it.

“Right,” she said. “I’ll get right on it.” She grinned, but in summer 2009 Ellen often struggled just to stand. I privately wondered how hard a thing I was asking her to do.

I emailed the extremely competent Mary Alice at Charm City Cakes (no stranger to secrets and surprise cakes, she) and explained the situation, that while it must appear we were coming for a design consult/cake tasting for a book party cake, in reality I wanted CCC to make a cake for my teammates. We talked over the design: the cake would be an aerobatic plane Ellen had flown in the early 90s, with Ellen’s Pomeranian flying the plane and Cindi’s search dog, Belle, wing-walking on it. The plane’s registration number would be Ellen and Cindi’s initials, plus the numeral 1. It would tow a banner and a string of moonflowers that had bloomed the day Ellen’s oncologist called with good news. And the banner, a message for all three of them, would read CLEARED FOR TAKEOFF.

Ordering the cake was the easy part. But now I had to lie. A lot. Made secret plane reservations. Exchanged a number of furtive emails with Charm City Cakes. Ran out of buildings a few times, cell phone clapped to my ear, pretending I’d just received an important call from my publisher!

While Ellen was gearing up the strength to go to Baltimore for a tasting for the “book cake,” I was asking Cindi to fly to Baltimore in secret and be there to surprise Ellen, a so-called “happy almost-end-of-treatment party.” Thoughtful Cindi, whose own battle had been difficult, cheerfully agreed to be a part of Ellen’s surprise, not knowing that the coming cake would ultimately be a tribute to her, too. None of this strategy could have been managed without the splendid co-conspiracy of Cindi’s husband John and Susan, a friend to us all, who smoothed over the rough edges, jumping in with a quick word or a change of subject when my own conniving faltered.

So many elaborate schemes fail, or fail to be as wonderful as hoped-for, but this was not one of those schemes. On the trailing edge of a November hurricane, Ellen and I arrived in Baltimore on time, and in worse weather later, Susan and Cindi did, too. The universe was particularly with us, it seemed, when a production assistant from Ace of Cakes called ten minutes before we were supposed to be at CCC on Friday the 13th, and Ellen was miraculously not at the table when the call came in.

When we entered Charm City Cakes, Ellen was looking to taste flavor samples. She did not expect her friends to come walking through a door. She did not expect a cake. Neither did Cindi know, until the moment she saw a gum paste Belle on the little airplane’s wing, that the celebration was for the three of them. And it was all caught on camera, a whole fleet of cameras and microphones leaning toward them at the moment of surprise.

Many thanks to Chef Duff Goldman, Mary Alice Fallon Yeskey, Adam Goldstein, Anna Ellison, Mary Smith, and Ben Turner, who all worked on the cake, I believe, and to the staff of Charm City Cakes and the crew of Ace of Cakes for their talent and collective kindness. Thank you for helping me honor my teammates — two women and a search dog, survivors all — and for making a proper cake to celebrate the mighty hat trick they somehow managed.

Ace of Cakes, “Dog Day Afternoon,” premiered March 11th, 2010 10 PM Eastern / 9 Central
March 16th, 3 AM / 2 Central
March 16th, 8 PM / 7 Central
Episode may repeat intermittently across 2010.

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I am dashing off one-sentence responses to the flood of emails received in these early days after the earthquake, where the surly ground still shakes from time to time, like a boxer working himself loose after his hard blow has laid an opponent down. Don’t know, I’m typing mostly when friends and strangers ask if we’re headed out, but we’re ready, whenever. When I sit, it’s probably as many of my SAR colleagues do, worldwide, tilted forward a little to the news, our weight resting on the balls of our feet as though we could spring up any minute, whistle to the search dog, and be out the door.

And so we could.

What does Puzzle make of all of this? Though her search work is driven by her ability to locate human scent, like most search canines she brings all available senses to bear on the job, and before the job they seem to be working overtime, too. She is aware of the changed rhythm here, the texture of my movements. She follows me back-and-forth from the house to the car, where I’m double-checking my already triple-checked gear list because it keeps me grounded. When in doubt, do something practical, if not for this search, then for the next one. There is always a next one. So I re-count gauze rolls and antiseptic pads and review HAZMAT identification and test the stethoscope again by listening to the sound of my dog’s strong heart, her pulse slightly quick with her curiosity and concern. She stands very still for the auscultation, halting even the impulse to wag. Huff, she says when I release her, and she looks up at me like what’s next?

Scent is only one gift the dogs offer calamity. Puzzle is more responsive to the sound of hurting humans than I had earlier realized. Just a few days ago, while I was working in the back part of the house and Puzzle was napping in the front, I heard her suddenly scramble up and begin to bark, racing from one front window to another, hitting the closed door to a bedroom so hard that she knocked it open and rushed to the window to bark there, too. I was about to scold her for her noisiness when she ran to me with a whine, running back to the front of the house, back to me again, back to the front of the house. Puzzle is not generally a noisy dog at home. By the time I put my work down and processed how unusual this alarm bark was for her, she was slamming her paws against the front door. This set all my little dogs off on a roar, too, but they were barking because she was barking, and she barked because something wasn’t right.

I looked out a front window, and in the verge between our sidewalk and the street lay a toddler beneath an overturned tricycle, wailing, clutching her head and dripping blood across the frozen grass. Her nanny stood over her but seemed unable to check for injuries, console the child, and at the same time release the little girl’s pantleg from the pedals of the trike, where the cloth had caught and apparently in her struggle, overturned her onto the curb. The little girl had a raw place on her arm a hands-breadth wide and a purpling knot on her forehead the size of a generous egg. Between us, the nanny and I got the child free and the bleeding stopped, the child’s mother and emergency services contacted. I glanced up once and saw Puzzle’s furrowed brow through the window. She no longer barked, but she didn’t look happy, either. When the child left for the emergency room, and I went back into the house, Puzzle sniffed me with great concern, particularly my hands. A long inspection, and then she let me go. Was it the sight of the child down on the sidewalk or the sound of her wailing that had called my dog in the first place? Scent here seemed the less-possible reason for Puzzle’s response and her alarm.

And now, as news footage shows an island’s horrific numbers, I don’t know if Puzzle can process at all what she sees on a screen, and I’m sure she cannot comprehend the meaning behind what she perceives on television, but the sounds of Haiti’s screams and tears clearly worry her, as though she recognizes such sounds mean something is far wrong. I cannot blame my dog. We are similarly disturbed. I’m pretty sure she can smell it, too: Puzzle seems to have absorbed some of my ready-set-wait. We turn the TV volume to half-measure and get on with it. When in doubt, do something practical.

So we play obedience games and do go-left, go-right drills. We practice a few agility commands. The energy is infectious. When I stop to answer the phone, Puzzle begins to pull socks out of drawers, her signature move when she knows something is up. She is good with her paws and her nose. She prizes open a drawer and pulls out socks and carries them through the house, dropping them like stones in the woods that could lead us somewhere. Still on the phone, I move through the house and find seven stray socks. And one glove.

And so we wait: Puzzle ready-ready-ready and I aware of time passing and bodies failing and people suffering beneath rubble, terrified and uncomforted.

Puzzle and I are not unique, and my thoughts are with colleagues en route or already in Haiti, experiencing all this in real-time. Search personnel spend countless hours training for such disaster and for the girding up to do the job and bear it, but sometimes the smallest thing can pierce that fortitude. A firefighter I know once dropped to his knees at the sight of a child’s bloody sock in the street. He’d been recovering bodies all day, but it was the sock that choked him voiceless. The dogs, too, have been prepared to work through the discomfort and the overwhelming, frantic noise of disaster recovery — they are so keen and smart and strong — but I’ve seen many of them sit trembling after hard sectors, overwhelmed with fatigue, eyes closed as though just for a minute, they could be somewhere else.

What do the dogs know? Onsite, these dogs know what is asked of them. They know the coming job. And as they wait to deploy, with every gust of new wind over devastated ground, they know a whole lot more than we do. I’m sure of it.

Godspeed.

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Arizona Golden Rescue
Arizona Golden Rescue is an all-volunteer, non-profit, charitable organization whose mission is to rescue displaced Golden Retrievers and mostly-Golden mixes that have been abused, abandoned, neglected or unwanted and find new, permanent homes for them. Rescued dogs are given a complete veterinary exam and their vaccines are updated; they are also microchipped, spayed or neutered, and tested for valley fever and heartworm. AGR provides emotional and medical rehabilitation and will pay for medications and for necessary surgeries. Through education at public appearances, AGR seeks to educate the public about the Golden Retriever breed and about responsible dog ownership, in order to help reduce the unwanted dog population

The Acme Foundation — helping seriously ill dogs and cats owned by seniors and the disabled.

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This all-volunteer, 24/7 canine team (est. 1985) serves Illinois, Wisconsin, and additional areas using a wide array of capabilities.

From their website:

We help find missing and lost persons, recover human remains on land and in water, and locate evidence.

Check out the team website for clear, concise information on the types of searches they do and how their dogs work, plus a kids’ area for some great rollover shots of the search dogs when they were puppies.

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Gulf Coast Search and Rescue

The Gulf Coast Search and Rescue, Inc.is a non-profit organization that has been operating on the gulf coast since 1984.

Their professional volunteers consist of K-9 teams, a mounted division,as well as other support personnel certified using national standards. Our purpose and interests are based on saving lives on the gulf coast or where our specialty services may be required to respond.

The GCSAR notes: “The purpose of our group is to provide specialized teams with ability to respond to assist with local and/or national emergency service agencies in the search and rescue efforts for people that may be lost, trapped,or suffering from other types of difficulty that do not allow them to respond to searching rescuers.”

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Greater Philadelphia Search and Rescue This team offers multiple forms of search and rescue resource, including canine and equine capabilities.

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Arizona Search Track and Rescue In addition to significant SAR capabilities, this canine team has a unique partnership with the local Alzheimer’s care community.

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Many thanks to Devon Thomas Treadwell for site development and customization.

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Haiti (in “Waiting Here, Waiting There”), Courtesy of United Nations Development Programme, used through Creative Commons license.

Puzzle and the Shoe (in “Dog for the Job”), Partners (in “Book”) by Chris Moseley Photography.

Book cover photography by Debbie Bryant of ThankDog Photography.

Puzzle Inverted (in “Off Duty”) by Ellen Sanchez.

Thorns (in “The Woods Next Door”) by Forest and Kim Starr, graciously provided through Creative Commons.

All other photographs by Susannah Charleson.

Content and images on this site are protected by copyright.
Permission requests to use photos by the author, please contact at susannah [@] scentofthemissing.com

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