>This is the kind of story that reminds you that there is a higher power. A story that shows that when you unselfishly pray for a happy outcome, there is really someone listening. And I don’t have any pictures, because it happened so quickly.
The dogs (Brando and Peanut, as Alan named them), spent the night in our front yard. They ate, they drank, they were petted and cuddled. If you saw the pictures from my previous post, you can see that they were also pretty darned comfortable. Throughout the day and evening, Alan kept saying, “Those dogs must belong to someone. They are just too sweet.” Even though they had no collars, had quite a few scars, and had obviously never learned some doggy basics like “sit,” “stay,” or how to walk on a leash, he felt sure that they at least had a loving family somewhere. And he was determined to find them if possible.
After our run this morning, Alan spent time making posters. After printing out the photos that I had taken, he affixed them to fluorescent green poster board. The plan was to head out to the area in which we found the dogs, and be on the lookout for, what? Hopefully, signs, someone out searching for their dog, a bolt of lightening. Somehow, we found the latter.
After passing by the found spot, we turned down the next street, eyes open for anything that might give us a clue. About a mile down the road, where the pavement ended and a dirt road trailed into the distance, we noticed a sign on the telephone pole. We pulled over to read it. It was in Spanish, and yes, they had lost a dog, but it was black and white. Alan called the number anyway, but we had little hope.
On a whim (or an inspiration, or by a guiding hand), Alan decided to head out on the dirt road. We’d never been down there, had no idea where we were headed. At this point we were about one mile and a half from where we had found the dogs. After about a half mile down this road, we saw a large building, which we soon saw was the Body of Christ Church. Just past the church, a baseball field, playground, and just past that, a small neighborhood, with paved roads, chain link fences surrounding mobile home type structures, many dogs in their yards.
The first house we passed had a pit bull in the front, similar in color to Brando and Peanut. Alan stopped the car, walked toward the house, calling (no way to go in with the dog in the yard). No answer. Across the street, four Chows added to the noise level. No people around.
Alan got back in car. As he did so, a ragged man on a bike rode by. Alan waved him over and he gave us a toothless grin. “Do you know this dog?” Alan indicates Brando in the back seat. “Oh, yeah, that’s Pizza,” the man says (we found out later his name was Larry), he lives in the house on the corner. You can just drop him off in front.”
Well, no way were we going to do that, but we did head down the street. After asking a few kids if they recognized the dogs (most were clueless, but one agreed it was Pizza), Alan approached the house on the corner and called out. A man answered and come out to the street. Sure enough, they were his dogs! The man said he had no idea how the dogs had traveled so far. As his kids watched through the window, Pizza and Peanut (we didn’t hear her real name), obediently walked through the gate into their own yard.
All told, this took us less than half an hour, most of it driving time from our home. As we drove away, Alan was overwhelmed for a moment by the experience. Somehow, with miles and miles of homes, ranches, empty territory, we drove straight to the correct place. When we driving, Alan told me that he had prayed last night for help in finding the owner so that he wouldn’t have to take the animals to the shelter.
Someone was listening.