Fitz

A rainy 60-degree day in February might not seem like the best weather for a hike in the woods, but for two weeks we have been taking walks through parks and our neighborhood that was covered in so much ice you might have thought we were in Arendelle. A rain storm had come through overnight, and the cold weather kept all the trees, bushes, even grass perfectly encapsulated by centimeters of ice for weeks. It was beautiful, peaceful and serene to walk alone with Fitz while most people stayed cozily locked indoors. I couldn’t believe that this storm hit just weeks before we were to return to school after a year of staying home courtesy of Covid-19. It almost seemed like Mother Nature willed us to never go back and I was torn between whether or not I wanted to.

I missed the classroom, the students and socializing with other human beings, but I also had adopted a Boxer Pit bull rescue dog back in September. Mornings became my favorite part of the day. Often I woke up to two paws nudging me awake, Fitz stretching gently beside me. Sometimes it was a forceful judo chop to the throat. I took him and a hot cup of coffee outside to sit on the deck while Fitz relieved his bladder and sunbathed. We took any opportunity between classes to play ball or go for short walks. Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser, or Fitz for short, started out as a temporary foster dog, a luxury I could now afford to do as the world turned to work from home. However, as he was rejected from various families due to age, size and emotional status he eventually found a home with me. I’m apparently not one to shy away from a 6 year old, 67 pound dog with separation anxiety and personal boundary issues. If he says he’s a lap dog, I believe him.

Sunday morning came, and to both celebrate and memorialize my last full day home, we took advantage of the warm albeit rainy day and went for a hike in a nearby gorge. To practice his recall, I jumped at the opportunity to let him off leash and call him to me every so often with treats at the ready. I can admit that, at times, I am overly affectionate and give him more credit than he is due but that day, he was on top of it. I sent numerous videos to friends showcasing his impressive ability. Both as a pat on the back to him and myself as a first time dog owner. Granted, there was no one else out that day to distract him; the melting ice turned the ground to mush, and the creek I was once able to hike on had become a rushing river thanks to relentless rain. I prefer it that way- the sounds of rain, birds, his paws in the mud and occasionally “Fitz, come!” is a great way to spend a Sunday. As we came to a fork in the trail my options were to take a loop to the right, or go to a waterfall by continuing straight. Giving Fitz the choice, he went straight. Waterfall, it is.

To get there we needed to descend into a valley still completely covered by the fallen leaves of the previous autumn. Fitz being a quadruped was much better at navigating the decline in elevation and narrow slippery trail and was much further than me, head down at the ground smelling what I’d imagine is a scent equivalent to passing a French bakery. As I looked up and down, between finding my footing, and watching Fitz, I saw he started walking off the path to the left, nose deep into the ground. I called for him, but whatever he got a whiff of was clearly better than the treats in my hand. I start picking up speed despite the gnarled roots that both acted as a benefit of stairs as well as the Devil’s Snare. By the time I got to the point on the trail where he veered off, he was in the valley heading for some unknown destination. Through my rain-spattered glasses, I tracked him in between the trees. I glanced quickly down at my feet to regain my footing, my thoughts racing: I've lost him. I've lost him. Unless that was him - yes. Fitz. I screamed his name, but he didn't look up or acknowledge my pleas. He started climbing up the embankment, slipping on the wet leaves and mud and I think that that will slow him down enough to let me catch up, but he is still a quadruped and I have been holding down a couch for the last year. All of a sudden he is gone. Up over the edge of the valley and vanished.

I followed his path as best as I could remember. He took a left here. I saw him by this fallen log, or was it that one over there? Is that mud visible in between those wet leaves where he slipped? I think so. He must have climbed over these rocks because anywhere else seems too dangerous. I climbed, crawled, and clawed my way up the steep edge losing count of how many times I begged him to come back. I half expected to see him once I crested the top, tail wagging - there was nothing there but the sound of me completely out of breath and the rain hitting the trees. Suddenly an alert went off on my phone warning me of severe floods. On top of incoming threats of water, panic was already rushing in, flooding my thoughts that were going a million different directions - unfortunately none of them in the direction my dog just disappeared to. I started to imagine all sorts of scenarios: him needing to get a drink of water but being rushed away in a torrent, having a seizure and falling down the ravine into the river. Did I mention on top of being an anxious dog, he also experiences an onset of seizures when highly exhausted?

I pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming. I've started hyperventilating, and the lack of oxygen getting to my brain is making everything feel surreal. Instead of going into the unknown to track him down aimlessly in the woods, I head to the left, back towards where I know I will inevitably meet back up with the trail. After what felt like much longer than ten minutes, I found it. It wasn’t the same as finding him but at least I know that it’s where our scent is, should he try to track me down. I decided to go back into the valley to see if he miraculously came back the way he left. I’ve called his names so many times at this point it starts to sound weird in my ears. Fitz. Fitz. Fitz. Fah-Itz. Fitzy. My thoughts are going a thousand miles per minute, the frantic words forming a hashtag in my mind:

#pleasecomebackwhydiditakeyouofftheleashimsostupidisthisadreamohgod

I retrace my steps. Take a left off the trail, over the log, take a left at the wet leaves, climb back up the embankment, granted, much slower than the first time. But, when I get back to the top, it's exactly the same: No Fitz, just rain. He can’t hear me over this rain. No matter how many times I yell his name, no matter how loud or how desperate. I hike the mile back to the car, alone. I feel such guilt, leaving him in the forest. I won’t really leave without him. I’ll stay all night if I have to. Along the way I calculate the best places where I can set up my tent. I look at the foliage coverage and debate between the potential help from the rain and the open field half way back to the car. I imagine the field would be better for transmitting my call to him and giving him more opportunity to find his way back to me.

Back at the car, I start driving to get the supplies I need: a megaphone, a flashlight and batteries. No longer in the woods, without the task of calling for Fitz, my mind has its first chance to really wander and figure out a plan. Do I call my principal and tell her that I can’t come on the first day back or just bring a change of clothes and get up in the morning and go and come right back after? I know I need to return home and get the tent and go in through the garage. I don’t want my Ring to see me return home without my dog. I drive to Walmart and buy the flashlight, it's only 2 pm at this point but it gets dark early- unfortunately, they don’t have a megaphone in stock. They were sold out at Harbor Freight as there was a sale. I scour the internet looking for the closest store that sells them and head to Khol’s of all unlikely places. Every minute ticking by that I’m not actively looking for him feels like a betrayal. I buy a mint green megaphone in the toy section and cry to the cashier that I need scissors to open this package of C batteries.

I rush back to the car and head back to the gorge, my mind completely empty this time. But as I start the trail all over again, my mind is racing as fast as my feet. How do I tell people about Fitz? How can I tell them that I lost him? Do I lie and say he was rehomed and let's not talk about him, thanks. Do I just admit that he died, don’t ask me how. Can I just never mention him again? What if he drowned? What if he lives in this forest forever, like Mowgli? I bounce back and forth between emotions of fear and annoyance. I resent that he left me, that he won't come back, I think nothing I can say will make him ever understand that he can’t just walk away, no peanut butter in your kong for a week mister. I follow the exact same path again, to the left, log, wet leaves, embankment, nothing. I use the megaphone. Fitz. Fitz. Fitz. Fitz. I use YouTube to transmit the sound of a dog whistle. I look at my phone; I’ve already hiked over ten miles. The same circle, over and over again. Left. Log. Leaves. Embankment. He is not coming back.

I look at Google Maps and if the waterfall is in the middle of the map I see there's a neighborhood on the other side. I hike back to the car and drive over to the furthest street where you can access the forest. There's a small field in front of the woods that is fenced off with a sign saying private property on it. I pull over, get out and lean against the fence screaming his name into the megaphone. Still nothing. It was a long shot anyway. In the house nearest to me a woman opens her window and yells out to me.

“Are you looking for a dog?” I immediately think she found him because despite my morbid thoughts earlier, I refuse to give up hope.

“I am!” but she just wishes me luck. For a second I was hopeful that she was what he smelled, that she was sitting at home on a Sunday baking baguettes and croissants.

I ask if I can park where I am and hop the fence to go looking for him. With her permission, I start at the wood nearest her backyard and now have no trail to follow. I push through brambles and branches, aware that my voice is growing hoarse and the night is growing darker. My head is on a never ending swivel. Despite the rain, the hours, the miles I still don’t feel tired. I don’t even feel like I’m dreaming anymore, I yell “Fitz,” the relentless rain patters on, “Fitz,” my feet are steady, one goes in front of the other, “Fitzy,” and then I see something out of the corner of my eye. The only thing that’s moved other than what I’ve pushed out of my way. It would be a deer, a squirrel, a mirage but I go running after it. There's a creek to cross but at this point it would be impossible to feel more wet so I plunge right through. As soon as I’m through to the other side, I see him clear as day.

It's Fitz. He’s heading right for me and I immediately drop to my knees. When he reaches me, I forget that I was ever annoyed, I think that I could live in these woods too. At this moment I don’t want to get up, I just want to stay and hold my dog. But, I stand up to start the long walk back to the car, hopeful I can find my way back. He laid down clearly exhausted, I started to notice all the scratches on his face and his swollen eye; he must have run all day, running past and into countless obstacles. Knowing our destination really wasn’t that far away I encouraged him to get up and drink from the creek before we set off. Thinking that the field would be easier to walk through, and I could actually see it out by the edge of the woods, I beelined towards it. I think the exhaustion of the day mixed with being overwhelmed at our reunion made me not realize until almost halfway through that I was walking through pricker bushes and thorny vines. Fitz kept collapsing, it was as though all the energy he had to run through the woods all day was zapped the moment we found each other. I picked up all 67 pounds of him and carried him through the thorns, trying my best to protect his face as my once-cherished brand name clothing was caught and repeatedly torn until I busted through the side of the field, and was back at the fence once more.

We got in the car and headed home to a much-needed warm bath. I wrapped him in a blanket on the couch and cried about our entire ordeal. I was no longer stressed about my return to school the next day, I just laid in bed that night holding my dog, listening to the sounds of rain. I swore to never let him off the leash again. Promised to never lose him again. I kissed his snout and said his name one last time that day, watching as his eyes blinked slowly open to meet mine. “Fitz.”