Huck: The Remarkable True Story of How One Lost Puppy Taught a Family--and a Whole Town--about Hope and Happy Endings (17 page)

We drove through the dimly lit streets, down Shadyside Road, left onto Pine Tree Road, right onto Hemlock Road, left onto Carriage Lane.

And then, all of a sudden, there stood Huck.

“THERE’S HUCK!” I screamed. There he was on Carriage Lane, just walking slowly down the middle of the street as though he’d had a long hard day. I stepped on the brakes, pointing the car away from him so the headlights would not scare him. Huck stopped, turned his head, and looked right at us.

“There he is, there he is!” everyone in the car screamed all at once.

There was no time to discuss the best way to handle this. “Michael, you go,” I said. “Call to him; when he hears your voice he’ll come.”

Michael crawled across Darian to open the car door nearest to Huck. He got out and before he even had a chance to take a step toward Huck or call his name, Huck took off. “HUCK!” Michael cried. “HUCK! HUCK! COME BACK!”

“Michael, get back in the car, quick,” Rich said. “He can’t outrun the car. Let’s move it.”

Michael jumped into the car and slammed the door shut. I sped the car down Carriage Lane. But Rich was wrong. Huck did outrun the car. He ran right into a wooded area at the end of the dead-end street. There was a house nestled in those woods. I pulled the car over to the side of the road. We all leapt out of the car and ran up the endless driveway of this house and into the woods. The light coming from the porch was not enough to allow us to see into the black thicket of trees. “HUCK, HUCK, HUCK,” Michael, Darian, Rich, and I cried out again and again. But Huck had disappeared into the night.

Michael stood staring into the woods. I put my arm around his shoulders. “I want to go into the woods. Let’s use the flashlights. Please, Mom. I don’t think he’s far away.”

I stood next to Michael and turned on the flashlight, shining it into the woods. “You can’t really see much. And if we go into the woods, we’re liable to meet up with other animals, and we’d probably get lost. It’s not a good idea.”

“But we can’t just leave,” Michael pleaded.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to,” I said. “But we’ll be out again as soon as it is daylight. I promise.”

“HUCK, HUCK, HUCK, HUCK, COME BACK,” Michael screamed, his face red with emotion. “PLEASE.”

Darian joined him. “PLEASE HUCK, COME BACK.”

This was exactly what both Rich and I had been worried about from the outset, that the heartache would only get worse. “We better go, kids,” I said gently.

“No, I don’t want to go,” Michael said, even as he turned to walk reluctantly toward the car.

We all headed back to the car in stunned silence. Without missing a beat, Rich summoned strength and hope I did not have. “I know we didn’t get him, but we know he is alive; that is the most important thing,” Rich said, then turned to look directly at Michael and Darian in the backseat. “We now know that he can make it through a night.”

From the road, we could see that most of the lights were on in the Clarks’ house. It was a welcome sight.

“I saw Huck,” Darian said excitedly to Dave and Barbara as we walked into the house.

“You’re kidding! That’s fantastic,” Barbara said, at the same time searching Rich’s face for an explanation of how we could see Huck and now be standing in her kitchen without him.

Rich recounted our sighting and Huck’s flight, masking his own disappointment in the telling.

Hearing the story, with Michael and Darian waiting to hear her reaction, Barbara said she saw it as a step in the right direction. “Even though you didn’t catch him, you know he’s still okay. And I have more good news. While you were out, six people called to say they had seen Huck. SIX!” she said. “All of them saw Huck earlier in the afternoon, but at least people are seeing the flyers.”

Rich jumped in. “That’s good,” he said. “But there is a problem here. People are seeing the posters hours after seeing Huck. It means the publicity is lagging behind the sightings.” He added, “We have to get more signs out and we have to do it faster.”

Rich and Dave then walked into the kitchen and stood over the map, like two generals in a war room. Dave had marked the location of each of the sightings and he and Rich tried to figure out the path Huck had been on.

Barbara, Michael, Darian, and I stood looking at the map, too. Dave pointed out Carriage Lane and the Darlington County golf course that bordered it. Beyond the golf course was an open expanse of land, which on the map looked like something to be measured in miles rather than acres.

“What’s this?” Michael asked, pointing to the green mass on the map.

“It’s the Capgaw Mountain County Reservation; it’s a state park,” Dave said. “There are hiking trails and ski runs there.”

“I’ll tell you one thing, if Huck goes in there, he ain’t never coming out,” Michael said in a way that suggested a note of finality as he walked out of the kitchen.

After reconstructing Huck’s movements, Rich called Michael back into the kitchen in an upbeat tone. “Listen, Mikey, I’m feeling really good right now and here’s why. Look at this path Huck has traveled,” he said, pointing to the map. “Have you ever learned in school about something called the law of disorder, some people call it the random walk theory?” he asked.

Hanging on Rich’s every word, Michael shook his head no.

“It was a theory developed by Albert Einstein that says that if you blindfold someone and tell him to walk, he will keep passing back through the place where he started, no matter how many times he changes direction.”

“Really?” Michael asked.

“Now here, look at where Huck has walked. He has crossed over his own path a couple of times.”

“Is that really true?” Michael asked. “Couldn’t the person just keep moving away from where they started from even if they don’t move in a straight line?”

Rich was saved by his ringing cell phone. It was Ray Leslie wondering if the tip we had gotten that afternoon had helped us find Huck.

“No, Huck is still missing, but remarkably we actually saw him. We just weren’t able to catch him,” Rich explained.

“Then he’s still missing and you still need help?” Ray asked.

“Yes, Huck is still missing and we still need a lot of help,” Rich responded.

Ray said he was sorry he had not caught up with us that day but would be out there first thing the next morning.

Rich hung up the phone and momentarily put his head on the table, on top of the map, closing his eyes for just a moment. I went and stood next to him, and sensing my presence, he reached up and put his arm around my waist. “We did a lot today. We’ll go at it again tomorrow,” I said, trying to let him know that I was where I knew he was—exhausted but not about to quit.

Rich stood up and started to fold the map while Dave set the table for dinner. Magically, Barbara had managed to make chicken and salad and Michael’s favorite, her signature mashed potatoes. We all sat down to eat.

C
HAPTER 12

W
HEN WE LEFT
the Clarks’ house around nine o’clock that night, the air felt even colder than it had the night before. I could see my breath. I had to wear gloves. The temperature was already below freezing, below 32 degrees, or it would be soon. How much cold could Huck withstand?

Back at the hotel, the mood in the lobby was festive. A boisterous wedding party was gathered at the bar, probably having just finished the rehearsal dinner. There was a black baby grand piano in the middle of the lobby and a man of about fifty sat at the keyboard playing and crooning. “Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four.”

Up in our room, the mood was decidedly not festive. Two overwrought parents tried to put on a good front before getting their child into bed. Michael had held on to Rich’s explanation of the random walk theory and found some comfort in it before drifting off. That was not true of Rich.

Once Michael was asleep and the lights out, Rich allowed his own fears and worry about never finding Huck—random walk theory or no random walk theory. He was haunted by Huck’s momentary glance in our direction and then his bolting far away from us. While it was heartening to see Huck, to know he was live, his retreat away from us was almost too much to bear. We had found Huck and then lost him again in a matter of seconds. It was a tough end to a grueling day.

“I suppose Huck ran because he was scared of the car, not because he was scared of us or didn’t know Michael,” I said to Rich.

“That’s probably right,” Rich replied, comforting us both, whether he believed it or not. “It is too bad we weren’t on foot at that point. I think we would have had a better chance. We should also have had some food with us. Let’s get some cream cheese tomorrow before we head to Ramsey.”

“Let’s also get some bologna,” I said. “Huck loves bologna almost as much as he loves cream cheese.”

Rich and I each had another fitful night’s sleep. Despite my physical and emotional exhaustion, I didn’t fall asleep for more than a twenty-minute stretch until some time around three o’clock in the morning. Rich was up at daybreak and slipped out of the hotel room without waking Michael or me. He wanted to go back to Carriage Lane, where we had seen Huck twelve hours earlier.

It was Saturday; people were not rushing off to school or work. Rich pulled into the parking lot of the twenty-four-hour A&P just across the highway that intersected with the road our hotel was on. He walked through the automatic doors, past rows of potted plants on risers, past the produce section and the salad bar, to the deli counter. There was no one there slicing meat. Who would want to buy sliced cold cuts at seven o’clock in the morning? To the side of the counter was a refrigerated display of prepackaged meats. Rich grabbed a package of bologna. He wasn’t going to risk seeing Huck again without being armed with food. He headed for the dairy section and grabbed a plastic silver container of Philadelphia Cream Cheese. He was the only customer at the only open register. He paid and went back out to the car.

As he drove past Elmer’s, Rich did not see a single car in the parking lot. He drove down Ramsey’s Main Street, where all the stores were still shuttered, past the Clarks’ house, where no lights could be seen from the street, and onto Carriage Lane. He parked and just sat there. The skies were ominous. The streets were eerily still.

Pensive and filled with melancholy, Rich kept going over all that had happened to our family during the past year—the terror of a cancer diagnosis, the arduous months of treatments, the death from cancer of our friend Connie, falling in love with Huck, finally getting a vacation, and now losing Huck. Through it all, Rich had been unfailingly strong and positive. He now felt drained. He had needed that vacation as much as I had needed it. He did not know how much longer he could lead the rallying cry.

He stared into the woods where Huck had run from us and willed Huck to come out again, to give Rich one more chance to bring home our Huck, our indefatigably affectionate best friend, who had, even before he came to live with us, brought us new life, unconditional love, and a renewed sense of fun.

Rich’s solitude was interrupted by the ring of his cell phone. It was Ray Leslie, the high school boy who wanted to help find Huck. Rich explained where Carriage Lane was and Ray said it would take him a while to get there, but he’d probably be there in an hour or so.

Rich hung up the phone and sank back into his painful thoughts and torturous remorse at having left Huck in unfamiliar surroundings in the first place. He somehow could not stop blaming himself. In his estimation, he had let his family down and the repercussions would be wounding. His guard was lowered; tears welled in his eyes.

Rich heard another car. He looked in his rearview mirror and saw Dave driving toward him down Carriage Lane. The two brothers-in-law apparently had the same thought. Go back to Carriage Lane and see if by some miracle Huck might still be there. Rich got out of our car and walked toward Dave’s. Dave lowered the window, took one look at Rich, saw how moist his eyes were, and averted his gaze for a minute, giving Rich a few seconds of privacy to pull himself into the here and now.

“What do you think, Dave? What do you think is going to happen?” Rich asked.

“I think in a few days he’ll get hungry and show up at someone’s door,” Dave said. It was a supposition that had more to do with his compassion for Rich than what he really believed was in the cards.

The two men stared at the chain-link fence and the golf course on the other side. “Let’s go talk to the rangers on the golf course,” Dave proposed. “We’ve got to drive around to the other side of it, which will take us on some busy roads, but there is a chance that Huck could have slipped under this fence and gone onto the golf course somewhere. I think it is worth talking to them.”

It was better than sitting in the car. Rich got back into our car and followed Dave to the golf course. They parked next to each other and then walked toward the one-story white building with a green roof that stood between the parking lot and the entrance to the course. While they did they made small talk, but not uncomfortably so. Rich asked Dave about who used the course. His mood was beginning to pick up. Action always feels better than inaction. Dave’s steady manner helped.

That cold Saturday morning in March, the golf course was empty. Even golfers did not feel the lure of the outdoors on this dark day. Inside the squat-looking building was a small pro shop, which was not doing any business. There was also a reception area with a desk where user fees were paid. Behind the desk was a fit-looking older man, probably in his seventies, with silvery hair. Another equally fit man of about the same age was milling around. Dave approached the man behind the desk, giving him an abbreviated version of Huck’s disappearance and asking if he’d mind if he and Rich put a few signs up. “Sure, go ahead. But I haven’t seen any dogs around here.”

Rich, whose only experience with golf was the kind played with brightly colored balls and a single club on a course with obstacles like windmills and streams, said: “When you speak to the rangers, would you ask them to try and apprehend Huck, not just tell us that they saw him.”

The two silver-haired men looked at each other. There was a pause in the dialogue.

“Uh, Rich, these are the rangers,” Dave said softly.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t understand. We’d appreciate anything you can do—a phone call letting us know you or someone else saw him out here on the golf course would be great.”

Back outside, Rich and Dave, whose moods were so weighty earlier, shared a laugh. Rich’s naïveté, his unfamiliarity with the workings of the county golf course, his expectation that surely men in charge of so much acreage would be young and muscular and dressed in uniforms, gave Rich a chance for lightheartedness. “Now that is one of the dumber things I’ve said in a while,” he said self-deprecatingly.

Rich headed back to Carriage Lane to wait for Ray, while Dave headed to the hotel to pick up Michael and me. We were already in the lobby when Dave arrived. Michael, downtrodden after coming so close to being reunited with Huck the night before, was wearing the green Yankees cap with the shamrock on it.

“Remember that golf course from last night?” Dave asked as Michael and I got into the car. “You know the one that’s on the edge of Carriage Lane? Rich and I went over there this morning. The guys who work over there agreed to put some signs up and to keep a lookout for Huck.”

“I don’t really think he did go in there,” Dave said. “I just wanted to make sure we covered all the bases.”

“That was a good idea,” I said, almost distractedly, worrying about something else. Rich had been doing too little sleeping and eating. “Do you happen to know if Rich had anything to eat?”

“I don’t think he has. I’ll bet you and Michael haven’t either,” Dave said. “Let’s stop on our way and pick up some muffins and coffee.”

Something about the time spent with Dave, whether it was the laughter or the companionship or the feeling of being proactive, had returned Rich to his determined self. He did not want to waste time waiting in the car for Ray. He wanted to start searching the woods Huck had run into the night before. He drove around to Pine Tree Road so that he could enter the woods from the far end.

Just as he eyed the woods at the end of the block, Ray called again, this time saying he was on his bike today and was riding up and down Carriage Lane. “Oh, you’re on your bike,” Rich said. “Oh, I thought you would be driving. Ray, how old are you?”

“I’m fifteen,” Ray said, altering the mental picture Rich held of Ray.

“Were you on your bike yesterday?” Rich asked.

“No,” Ray said. “Yesterday I was walking.”

“Ray, I didn’t realize any of this. I just assumed you were old enough to drive. I am only a block away, on Pine Tree, toward the end of the street. Why don’t you lock your bike to the golf club fence until later and walk over here.”

“Okay,” Ray said.

“You can drive around with me and I’ll take you back to get your bike later,” Rich added.

Ray turned out to be a boy with bright brown eyes, freckles, and a winning smile. He had a sense of social commitment that belied his years, which probably was in part what made the teenager get up early on a Saturday morning to go out and help strangers search the woods for their lost dog. That particular morning Ray was dressed in jeans, a green T-shirt that said
SAVE DARFUR
on it, and a blue parka with a ski lift ticket hanging off the zipper.

Like Michael, Ray loved animals and had to beg his parents for years before he finally got a pet. Reluctant to become dog or cat owners, Ray’s parents thought a rabbit would be easier. Along came Dante. They knew Ray would fall in love with his new friend. They did not know they would, too.

Dante was not named for the writer of the epic poem or for the rings of hell. According to Ray, he thought the name sounded spunky and it fit the floppy-eared, domesticated rabbit’s personality. Dante lived and grew in Ray’s bedroom. He was as affectionate as any lapdog, happiest when human hands were caressing him. There were a lot of close calls with departure, as Dante repeatedly chewed through leashes and ropes used to secure him in the yard.

As Rich and Ray walked into the woods that morning, Rich learned that Ray was a triplet with a passion for jazz and Gerry Mulligan, the breezy jazz saxophonist.

In the course of getting to know each other, while Rich and Ray were trading the outlines of their lives, they stumbled on the fact that Ray was actually the cousin of one of Michael’s classmates. It was an odd coincidence, especially given that Michael went to a small school with only fifty boys in each grade.

Ray, intensely curious about the dog we were working so hard to find, privately doubted that Huck could possibly still be alive. Still, he wanted to help and listened carefully as Rich gave him all of the details of seeing and nearly catching Huck the night before.

“Wow. Well, I sure hope he did not go onto the golf course,” Ray said. “There is no place for a little dog to hide out there. It is so open, and at night there are a lot of animals like foxes and raccoons. I’d be scared out there.”

The trek through the woods continued. Rich and Ray crossed a stream wide enough to make it impossible to step from one side to the other, forcing each of them to balance on a rock in the middle of the water in order to get to the other side. Rich had been doing so much of this the past couple of days that he did not hesitate for a moment and made the move as nimbly as his new teenage friend. The woods held no signs of life of any kind. If there were any plant shoots pushing through the ground, signaling the impending spring, the brown leaves and broken twigs and branches were not yet letting them through. Rich, with a package of bologna in one pocket and a tub of cream cheese in the other, called to Huck, listened for him, but heard nothing except the sound of his own breathing. “He’s not in here,” Rich finally said to Ray. “We’d better go back out to the street.”