On the eighth day...

I left the house this morning with more 'lost dog' fliers with Savannah's picture on them. To date, there must be 150 photos of her sprinkled out there in our little town and the four smaller ones that surround us. My husband will bring home another hundred fliers when he gets home from work... all those photographs sent out into the universe, and not one phone call from someone saying "I think I found your dog..."

At the local thrift stores, they posted the fliers and gave me more lost-dog stories:  Sweetie came home after two weeks, covered in mud and sticky-burrs..... George was picked up by the mailman, just two miles away and that stupid dog couldn't find his way back to our farm..... Lucy ran after the UPS truck and then found her way home ten days later by following the propane truck..... General Lee took off after a wild pig and we never saw him again, bless his heart.

Along the way into town, I saw a deputy's car near the town park so I pulled into the parking lot and showed him Savannah's picture. He told me that copies of "that there dog" are plastered all over the station-house, and "everyone wearing this here uniform has been keeping an eye open for her."  I would have thanked the deputy more profusely but my eyes started to puddle up and I didn't want to start sobbing.

I left fliers at two more vet clinics that we hadn't gone to before... both of the girls behind the desk told me how sorry they were, they knew what I was going through, please keep hoping for the best, you just never know what can happen. I drove to the local animal shelter to make sure they still had our flier posted on their board... they did... and their driver has been notified to "be on the lookout for a dog named Savannah."

When I had finished my errands in town, I drove down the road to the dog park where we took Savannah every week. The park is closed now for repairs (damage from flooding from the heavy rains we had a couple of weeks ago). The dog park was deserted and empty, all the hoops and tunnels and ramps just reflecting the sun, the water in the swimming pools clean and shimmering. I called out to Savannah, once, twice, sixteen times... I didn't expect a bark in return because I've gotten used to not getting an answer now to my calls.  Her pictures are still hanging up on the bulletin board near the park entrance... 'Lost Dog: Her name is Savannah.'  Every time I see one of our fliers, I still shake my head in disbelief. I have lost my dog. Lost. My. Dog.

Last Wednesday night between 8:00 and 8:30... that's when the blast went off that sent Savannah flying down the road, bringing me face-down onto the pavement. Most of the open bruises have since healed, the palm of my left hand is scabbed over, my right wrist is black and blue, my right knee is greenish-yellow, the inside of my right arm is purple, and the right side of my rib-cage is one continuous ache. This morning was the first time I was able to get behind the wheel of my car and drive. I was so intent on looking along the roads for Savannah that I didn't even turn on the CD player today... the first time in over 20 years that Barry Manilow's music didn't accompany me as I drove. (My apologies to Barry, but he's a dog-lover and he would understand.)

The neighbors across the road are having repairs done to their roof and I can hear the hammering as the men work. If Savannah were here, I would have had to walk her in our backyard because she wouldn't have liked hearing that noise as we walked along the road. Compared to the sound of the fireworks that those neighbors exploded into our world last week, those hammer sounds are like pins dropping on cotton.

I have an empty feeling lately... I don't want to think this way, but I honestly think that we will never see Savannah again. If someone had indeed picked her up and wanted to keep her, she can easily be hidden in a backyard or a back pasture with other dogs, especially on these quiet county roads where the house is set so far back that it can't even be seen from the road.

With all the fliers posted all over this area, one would think that someone, somewhere, had seen our Savannah... seen her gold and white long-haired fluffy self dragging that blue leash behind her... they surely would have called the number on her tag if they are true dog-lovers... had they seen the posters, surely they would have wanted to reunite her with her own people.

As I type this, Sweet Pea is sleeping in Savannah's bed. For the first three days that Savannah was gone, Sweet Pea would walk up to that bed and sniff it, then walk away. On the fourth day, Sweet Pea walked into the bed and curled up, and he's been doing that every day since. Sweet Pea has his own bed and favorite chairs in the TV room but he has abandoned those now, preferring the king-sized expanse of Savannah's dog-bed to his own cat-sized accommodations.

I was very angry yesterday at the 'imaginary' people that could have taken Savannah. I didn't exactly wish them well... in fact, I wished all sorts of bad things for them. Not exactly a nice thing to do, but when you think someone has stolen your dog and hasn't let you know where to come get her, there's no telling what kind of bad karma you're willing to risk.

This afternoon, I find myself wondering if Savannah is eating well... is she too hot or too cold?  Does she remember her life here? Would she recognize me or my husband after another week of not seeing us? If she is with other people now, does she trust them? Are they good to her? Are they brushing her and making sure her nails are clipped? Are they hugging her? Are they loving her?

It hurts like hell to not know the answers. It hurts like hell to not have her here.

It just flat-out hurts, and I'm not talking about my bruises... it's my heart that hurts.