On September 16th, around 4:00 on a lovely pre-fall Pacific Northwest day, I picked up a rescue malamute from a foster home in North Bend, the eternal home of Twin Peaks. Her name was Missy, on the WAMAL (Washington Alaskan Malamute Adoption League) website but the foster parent, Michelle, had renamed her Misha. Misha was about to change our lives.
Getting our of my car a giant malamute wandered over to give me a sniff and a flick of the tail. My initial thoughts were, "Well, she's a lot larger than described, and looks older than 2, but what the heck. A rescue is a rescue." The dog turned out to be Michelle's eight year old male. Misha herself, a skinny cream-colored waif of around 40 pounds, was in a 10 X 10 roofed kennel in the back of the yard. As Michelle filled me in on habits and adventures, we entered the kennel. Misha stayed near Michelle, who held her leash. After petting her awhile, and listening to her dietary whims -- food containing duck and rabbit, although chicken would do in a pinch, all three of us went on a walk. I took the leash part of the time, and everything seemed on track.
Things changed entirely when we tried to get Misha into the carrier in my car. Even though Michelle had given Misha homeopathic and other sedation, she fought for her life. When we (mostly Michelle) got her in the kennel, she sat shivering and hyperventilating.
I drove the 2 1/2 hours up to Bellingham where I live. During that time I heard nary a sound. When I arrived, my wife, whom I'd chatted with on cell phone, greeted me in the driveway. We wrestled the carrier into the back yard, and I opened the door, while retaining a grip on the leash. My first mistake was to unclip the leash from her collar. That was three days ago and we have not been able to catch her since.
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