Losing My Shiba boy

Written in camp, evening of 7/8/07

I’m going to have to start being really careful what I wish for, or even appear to wish for—the universe is taking me too seriously. I’m back to three dogs. I’ve lost my Shiba boy, the really pretty one. What I know is that he disappeared. What I’m pretty sure of is that coyotes got him, about 3 AM Sunday the 8th of July, somewhere in southeast Utah.

I’ve lost him several time before, and always gotten him back. The most dramatic was ten years ago, also somewhere in Utah. I had three dogs at the time—the Shiba boy, the Shiba girl who was the mother of the one I now have and who died about three years ago, and the poodle. We’d been driving all day, and the dogs were anxious to get out of the car. I stopped and took them for a walk, but not a very satisfactory one, and we climbed back into the car. I was looking for a camping spot, and decided to check out a commercial campground near a town not too far away. I drove in and surveyed the scene, and was a bit tempted—there was a nice pond—but it was crowded with families, which meant keeping the dogs on short leashes, and I like to camp in isolated spots where I can turn them loose, so I drove on. I headed up a dirt road toward a national forest, and checked out several spots, none of which quite suited me, and decided I needed to eat before continuing the search. I pulled up an old logging road, found a wide place under a tree, opened the door for the dogs—and only two jumped out. I was so shocked I actually counted them twice—one, two—one, two. So I had a quick meal, found a picture of the missing boy, and started backtracking. I met several people and showed them the picture, but no one had seen him. I made it all the way down the mountain, stopping everywhere I had stopped before, and called and called, but nothing. I was figuring out how I could stay for up to five days to continue looking for him, how to get posters made, etc., the whole time. And I was trying to remember the last time I had seen three heads in the back of the car.

When I got back to town, it was dark, and I debated whether it was worth going back to the commercial campground. I was pretty sure he hadn’t jumped out there—I thought I would have noticed, and I was pretty sure I had seen him out of the corner of my eye after that. But I decided to check it out just to be thorough. When I got there, I hopped out, picture in hand, and approached some kids. They immediately said, “Oh, yeah, so-and-so has him, he’s been taking him around all afternoon looking for the owner.” My erring Shiba boy had been in hog heaven the whole time, admired by one an all, being totally spoiled. When he saw me, I was all “Oh, I’m so glad to see you, are you OK?” etc., but he was more like “Oh, hi, where ya been?” He did agree to go with me, but one had the feeling he’d have been just as content to stay with the kids. I later decided he saw the water, heard kids’ voices, decided this was where he wanted to be, and hopped out the half-open back window. ‘Which I tended not to open so wide from then on.

There have been various other times I’ve lost him, usually because he decided to take off when we were on a walk, or to follow someone else because they seemed interesting. I picked him up from the pound at least twice, always threatening to just leave him the next time he pulled such a stunt. Each time, he was always glad to see me, but totally matter-of-fact about it.

But this time I’m not going to get him back. We pulled into this campsite

about five last night, and I set up camp. By seven, tent was up, dogs were fed, I was fed, and I was tired. The Shiba boy had paced around checking things out, as he always did when we camped out like this, checking back periodically. I was trying to keep tabs on him, but he seemed to be OK. He hasn’t been happy on much of this trip—too hot, too much time in the car. On the reservation, the first night, he didn’t settle down all night, just paced around and around. He couldn’t move very fast because of his failing hindquarters, but he just walked and walked. The second night he settled down and even came into the tent to sleep, so I was thinking he was getting into the routine of the camping. Last night he seemed pretty happy, but he wasn’t settling down, so I figured I’d let him stay out for the night—I’d done that before and he usually would eventually settle down nearby. Now of course I wish I’d forced him into the tent or the car, whether he liked it or not.

What I now think happened is that he did settle nearby, just not near enough, and a coyote got him. About 3 AM I was wakened by a coyote. It was close by, and the first call—the one that woke me– sounded almost like a scream. I now suspect the scream was him. The coyote continued calling for a minute or so, then went off. I tried calling my boy, but got no response.

In the morning, I got up and began calling for him again. During the morning, I walked a quarter mile or so in all directions from the camp, calling and looking for any sign of him, dead or alive, but I never spotted anything. If he were alive and close by, he would have come back to camp for breakfast. The odds that he wandered so far he couldn’t find his way back are slim. So I think the coyote got him, and dragged the body off to a den somewhere. He weighed about 25 pounds, but these coyotes are used to dealing with deer, which weight much more, so I don’t think it would have been too much weight for a coyote.

I’ve hung around all day, hoping for a miracle, but it hasn’t happened. I had a cat disappear once several years ago—also probably the victim of a coyote—and what I remember about that is that the grief sort of sneaks up on you. There’s no body to make it real that the critter is gone. No illness to warn you that you’re about to lose another one. Just—poof. Not there. I’ve cried a little, but it took me all day to get there. And now I just have this not-good feeling in my chest. This has really taken the heart out of me for the trip. The Shiba boy was one of the main reasons I wanted to do so much camping this summer—he just loved (there—past tense, I can do this) being out in the woods. Given his recent difficulty with his hind legs, I figured this would be the last summer we could do this. And we were just getting to the good part—from his perspective—when he was killed.

(I just had to go chase down the Shiba girl—she took off after something. I’ve got her corralled in the tent now—she isn’t thrilled about it, but I’m not about to risk losing another one.)

Just to top off the day, the poodle gave me a serious scare. He had a seizure, probably from low blood sugar. He’s been diabetic for two and a half years, but this is the first time it’s happened. He hadn’t eaten his full ration of food last night, but he often leaves some (I surmise when his blood sugar is high), so while I encouraged him to eat until his refusal was clear, I figured he was OK. He also refused his full ration this morning. This afternoon, he was in the tent, and it was hot in there. I left the tent, but he stayed—a bit unusual, but I didn’t make much of it. A while later, I was back in the tent (thank god), and he started seizing. I dragged him outside (he was frothing at the mouth by then) and not having anything better to hand, rubbed sugar into his gums, wetting my finger to help the sugar dissolve. By this time I was begging him not to leave me too, and begging god (or the anonymous universe, take your pick) not to take both of them in the same day. I was trying to think of something else sweet I could give that might act more quickly than granulated sugar. He seemed a bit better by this time, but was clearly still not out of the woods (so to speak). I found some yogurt, and by this time he could take it by himself. He ate some of that, and then some dog food, and seems to have made a full recovery.

My mother was diabetic, and some of my earliest memories are of trying to get her to drink orange juice when she was having an insulin reaction, so I’m familiar with diabetes and what can happen with low blood sugar. But Mom never had a seizure (that I know of), so this was a bit extra scary. However, he seems fine now—got his shot on time and ate all but five kibbles of his full ration, and is lying dozing here in the tent as I write. But altogether, I’m feeling that I need to be more vigilant and pay more attention to details.

I haven’t decided where we’ll head tomorrow—part of me just wants to go home, but I’ve made plans with my brother later this month, and I hate to disappoint him. So we’ll see where we end up tomorrow night. I just know I’m going to get up early, pack up, and leave this place that took my Moxie.