Over the week of the Fourth of July Frinklin and I took a week off work and invited my family up from San Diego. We had beautiful weather in the mid 70s, sun shining, few clouds, and no rain. They spent most of the week shivering and complaining that they had not brung enough heavy jackets. Wimps.

On the fifth, my fourteen-year-old sister, Nikki, managed to grab a stray dog that was wandering through our front yard and informed me that we would be placing him in my backyard. I was given no choice in the matter. I avoided all contact with the dog and left a message with Animal Control asking that they pick up the stray as soon as possible. The dog was provided water and a blanket to lie upon. No petting. No naming.

Forty-eight hours, five bowl of dog food, and two additional calls to Animal Control later, we were forced to spend some panicked time with the stray. We had returned home from a day-long hike in the Olympic National Forest (at Lake Quinault) with The Jeffrey and Matchbox. They were quite exhausted and colapsed upon entering the house. I peeked out the window into the backyard to check on the dog. He appeared under the window, peering up at me, tail wagging. As I turned away I immediately heard loud, noises coming from what sounded like under the house. Thinking he was digging under the fence I ran outside.

Glancing around I found...nothing. The stray was gone. I opened the gate and saw no sign of the giant, 80 pound, hairy beast that had been happily living in our backyard for several days. As I turned to enter the house and tell Frinklin that we were now down one extra canine, I heard a loud whine from ground level. Looking down, I noticed a nose poking out from the ventilation area that leads to the crawl space UNDER THE HOUSE. Let me repeat that. UNDER THE HOUSE. This ventilation hole is only about 12"X18". Eighty pounds of dog. UNDER THE HOUSE. Much yelling for Frinklin started immediately.

Observe:

Please note that what you are seeing is just his head sticking out. His body is far larger. Reason states that if he made it into the hole, he can get out again, right?

At one time, chicken wire had covered this hole, but no longer. As we attempted to coax the stray out, old pieces of wire dug into his legs and chest. Frinklin managed to rip out most of the sharp edges and we began to pull, which didn't work. After ten minutes or so, questions such as "Who does one call to remove an 80 pound dog from your 110 year-old home's 12 inch crawl space?" began to be asked. The fire department? Those wild animal removal specialists that work with alligators and skunks?

It finally dawned on me that the reason he had shoved himself under the house is that he was trying to enter the house to be with us. He saw me through the window and wanted to come in. This provided leverage, finally. I started encouraging with all my might. Calling him every sweet doggie name there is. Petting him and sweet-talking, praising and cooing. Slowly one leg...then...the other...Frinklin had them both...the front end is out...now the middle...and...free!

We were immediately covered by a giant, harry mass of very excited dog. Any thought of sending him off with Animal Control was banished. Spending 45 minutes rescuing a dog from your crawl space is a bonding experience for all parties involved. He was ours, and we were his. We christened him Herky and vowed to keep our families in the dark for a few more days until we could confirm that The Jeffrey would accept the new recruit.

More tomorrow...

Posted by: Ensie at 08:28 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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