The Stolen Dog Read online

  The Stolen Dog

  Tricia O’Malley

  Copyright © 2013 Tricia O’Malley

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyeditor: Carrie Lauer

  Cover Design: Josh O’Malley

  All rights reserved. This book was self-published by the author Tricia O’Malley under Park & Stowell Publishing. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without express permission of the author. This includes reprints, excerpts, photocopying, recording, or any future means of reproducing text.

  If you would like to do any of the above, please seek permission first by contacting the author at: www.thestolendog.com.

  Published in the United States by Park & Stowell Publishing.

  For Tante Jo — who followed her own path, saving animals and humans alike, all while sharing laughter through her tattered joke book.

  Contents

  That Day

  Chapter 1

  Day 1

  Day 2

  Day 3

  Day 4

  Day 5

  Day 6

  Day 7

  Day 8

  Day 9

  Day 10

  Day 11

  Day 11, Evening: Part I

  Day 11, Evening: Part II

  Day 12

  Day 13

  Day 14

  Day 15

  Day 16

  Day 17

  Day 18

  After

  Words from the Author

  The story of Briggs has served as inspiration to many. From making others better dog parents to reminding us to pay attention to others that need help, Briggs’ story has touched many. To this day, we continue to help others whose dogs are lost or stolen. At www.thestolendog.com, you’ll find our guide to mobilizing a movement of people who will care about your lost or stolen animal. Even better, a portion of the proceeds from the sale of this book will be donated to shelters and rescues. In this way, Briggs’ story will continue to help other animals in need.

  “Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.”

  – Anatole France

  That Day

  I am convinced that the phone sounds different when there is bad news on the other end. It’s as if the pitch of the ring shifts ever so slightly. My husband’s picture flashed across the screen.

  Somehow I already knew this was not an “I’m thinking about you,” or “how’s your day going,” kind of call.

  “Briggs is gone!” Josh shouted into the phone, speaking of our two-year-old sassy, stinky, laughable Boston terrier, a central focus of our lives.

  “What!? What do you mean?” Confused, I scribbled down everything he was saying, my words chaotically strewn across a pink Post-it note. The note’s cheerfulness battled in vain with the terrifying words it held.

  “I left him on the deck while I went inside to change. I had this really bad feeling so I ran back downstairs…and he was gone!” Josh’s voice scratched through the phone as if he were willing the words to be untrue.

  “Okay, okay. Calm down. He clearly must have gotten out of the fence somehow. Just run down the alley and call for him. You know he never runs far. You’ll find him, honey. Just go!”

  This was a time for action, not words, and Josh hung up. I stared at the phone with intensity, hoping that I could use some manner of Jedi mind tricks to lead Josh to Briggs. Within ten minutes Josh called back. Increasingly panicked, his words were fractured by gulps of air. The sound of his feet pounding on the pavement echoed his panic through the phone.

  “He’s not here — he’s just gone! I can’t find him!”

  “Just keep looking!” I said, my chest tightening as bands of fear snaked through me. I slammed my laptop closed, the fluorescent light piercing my eyes, as I rushed to tell the office manager that I had to leave.

  I had to go.

  As I raced home, numbness crept through me. The beating of my heart amplified in my ears, silencing the everyday sounds of traffic that flitted by my open window.

  Somehow, I knew. I don’t know how, but I just knew.

  Briggs was stolen.

  With a complete disregard for safety, I raced through several red lights and reached our neighborhood in record time. I slowed down, my eyes blurry as I desperately scanned the yards and alleyways, praying for a glimpse of black and white. I startled strangers on the street, screaming to them from my open window, “Hey you! Have you seen a Boston terrier?”

  My thoughts were at war with each other, tumbling, tripping, and falling all over themselves. Yet a consistent theme emerged.

  Help. Please. Help us. Help me. Briggs. Briggs. Please help him.

  The spring day laughed at me as I squealed to a stop in front of our house. Our neighborhood was disgustingly picturesque. Sunlight filtered through the leaves while stay-at-home moms pushed their peaceful babies in strollers.

  I was the chaos in this otherwise heavenly little slice of Americana.

  Josh clattered down our front steps, panic radiating from him. Sweat dripped from his clean-shaven head, and his pale Irish skin was flushed from sprinting around the neighborhood. He climbed into the car and slammed the passenger door with a ferocity that mirrored his disheveled appearance. Panting, he looked at me, his warm brown eyes terror-stricken.

  “Go!” he said.

  Terrified, I floored the engine. We circled the neighborhood, screaming.

  Disturbing the peace.

  Was he hit by a car? Stolen? Hurt? Scared? Helplessness pulsed through our veins. We pulled into the alley behind our house. The sunlight made our congested alleyway, with its tightly placed garages and parking spots, appear almost charming. “No trouble here,” it seemed to say. “No, ma’am.”

  Abandoning the car, we walked up and down the alley, calling for Briggs. “Briggs! Come here, sweet baby. Briggs! Briggs! Briggs?” The hoarseness of my voice mirrored my sorrow.

  A shriek shattered my search. Shocked, I turned and looked. It was our neighbor, Whitney. She shouted from her second-floor reading nook, which just happened to lend a clear view of a portion of our otherwise private rear deck. As I looked up, I saw Whitney desperately waving through the open window.

  “I saw your dog get taken!”

  Chapter 1

  There is something to be said of the human-animal bond — you know that whole man’s-best-friend thing. Either you get it or you don’t. Dogs have inspired humans to make fools of themselves for years. Whether you are a tough guy who coos sweet nothings to your dog or an owner who switches dog collars based on the day of the week — once an animal has entered into your life, it is impossible to remain untouched. There is something instinctive about this bond: the adoration the animal has for you, the laughter and companionship they bring to your life, and your willingness — and responsibility — to be their protector. That’s how it works when you sign on to be a pet owner; above all else, you commit to protecting them.

  Josh and I took our roles as new pet owners very seriously. Before we decided to get Briggs, we studied breeds for months. We argued tirelessly about which breed would be best for the space we had, what kind of dog would suit our personalities, and so on. Finally, we settled on a Boston terrier, a good-natured, happy breed that does well in city environments and smaller spaces.

  Our three-story townhome on Milwaukee’s East Side had virtually no yard, but several parks were just a happy dog walk away. Plus, our small side yard, which was tucked behind a neighborhood church, offered a place where our new pet could take care of business quickly and sniff around freely.

  After careful research, we decided we wanted to get our puppy from a reputable breeder who specifically bred for temperament and love of the breed. We weren’t interested in
a perfect show dog — just a happy, healthy puppy to join our family. Armed with our research, Josh and I visited the breeder in southern Illinois to ensure that it was a tip-top operation.

  The drive was six hours each way. Eight of those twelve hours were spent arguing over potential names; one was spent arguing about the speeding ticket I earned; and the rest were spent in happy discussion about how adorable our new puppy was. When we met the litter, we knew immediately that ours was the runt and the oddball of the group. Tiny, with too-big ears, he squeaked adoringly at us and melted our hearts.

  Being the responsible (slightly-obsessive) first-time dog owners that we were, we spent the next eight weeks reading books on Boston terriers, investigating training methods, and getting all the necessary components for creating a puppy-proof home.

  The day finally arrived when we could pick up our puppy, Briggs. Our drive was significantly shorter this time, as the breeder agreed to drive just north of Chicago to meet us at a rest area where the “exchange” could be made.

  A laugh tore from me the second that I set eyes on Briggs. The most recent pictures had made him appear significantly larger.

  He was tiny. Tiny in an — I’ll-kill-him-if-I-accidentally-step-on-him — sort of way. Immediately in love, we cuddled our new addition to the family. Briggs stared up at us with his warm brown eyes, and stretching up from my arms, he gave both of us a lick.

  We’d been approved.

  I insisted that we attempt to potty Briggs prior to the ride home. As he ran in circles around Josh, his little body vibrating with joy as he tugged the leash in his puppy teeth, I cried from laughter. This nine pounds of energy was going to give us a run for our money. Ready to begin the journey home, we climbed into the car, Josh cradling our precious new bundle, a bundle that he proceeded to drop between the seat of the car and the door.

  Headfirst, that is.

  Annnnd, welcome to the family, I thought.

  Briggs quickly became the light of our lives, his silly antics pervading our daily emails and text messages. His quirks kept us constantly laughing. From his deep distrust of plastic garbage bags (an environmentalist, perhaps?) to his vicious barking attacks at cooking tongs, he consistently surprised and amused us.

  His natural inclination for hilarity revealed itself whenever I attempted to hang up my clothes. Every time a hanger crossed his line of sight, Briggs went through the roof, barking and dancing his way across the room, eyes rolled back in fury. I secretly applauded his stance on putting clothes away. Who really likes to do that anyway?

  With an innate sense of humor, Briggs’ actions soon had a following among our friends on Facebook. Our research had enlightened us to the fact that Boston’s have a sense of humor, but we never expected the immense depth of this personality trait, especially in a dog.

  Everywhere we went people were naturally drawn to Briggs. He radiated happiness and loved people. From the dog park to Josh’s hurling matches with the Milwaukee Hurling Club (an Irish sport similar to rugby), our dog was a favorite. A wiggly-butt dog, he often laid his ears flat and shimmied his way up to anyone willing to give him attention. Little did we know then that the impact our sweet puppy had on others would benefit him in more ways than we could have ever possibly imagined.

  Day 1

  As Whitney’s words shattered our world, I screamed for Josh. “He was stolen! He was stolen, Josh! Somebody took Briggs!” Whitney’s voice fell to background noise as Josh rounded the corner of the garage, panic lacing his steps.

  We stared at each other, our reality shifting as Whitney’s words fell upon us from the second story like a final, unwanted verdict ruled upon us from on high.

  “I saw your dog get taken. I tried to call to Josh, but he took off running. I’m not that mobile, and I wasn’t able to reach him,” Whitney explained urgently. “I saw…well, there was this man who came between our houses, jumped on the side of the deck, leaned over, grabbed Briggs, and then raced back out toward the alley. I thought it was weird, as nobody ever walks between our houses, but I figured you had friends in the back alley loading the car up. I didn’t realize until I heard Josh yelling a few minutes later that Briggs had truly been stolen.”

  Whitney went on to describe the dognapper as a dark-skinned male in his early thirties, of stocky build and medium height, and with curly longer hair. She insisted he had some kind of product in his hair because it was shining in the sun. Our neighbor was a credible witness since her thirty years of experience in journalism had trained her to pay attention to details.

  Operating on autopilot, I returned to my car. My palms, sweaty and trembling, slipped off the steering wheel as I eased my car into the garage.

  There was no longer a need to circle the block.

  Knives of pain shot through my lungs as I struggled to breathe. Tears riveted down my face, a cool caress on my flushed cheeks. Josh opened my door and pulled me to him, furiously rubbing my back as I cried into his shoulder.

  Briggs was stolen.

  Whitney’s news changed everything.

  Josh took me inside so that we could call the police. I stared blankly at the kitchen wall and immediately felt the eerie silence like a cold weight pressing down on me; the house was too quiet without the pitter-patter of our dog. Josh’s words to the police were muffled as images of Briggs flashed through my mind — a half-drunk, manic slide show of what-ifs and could-bes. He was out there somewhere, and I was certain that he was terrified.

  Immediately after Josh realized Briggs was missing, we both posted a notice on Facebook — the modern-day version of a “Lost Dog” sign — and asked everyone to keep an eye out for him in our neighborhood. Still reeling from the fact that my intuition had been correct, I achingly updated our Facebook statuses to: “Stolen Dog!”

  Stolen Dog. The words stared back at me, their truth undeniable. That would be our battle cry, our cry for help — our refusal to be victims. I began the process of compartmentalizing my feelings. I needed to put my emotions on lockdown, and I needed to do it fast; otherwise, I’d be of no use to Briggs.

  My fingers skimmed the keyboard as I frantically posted the information everywhere I could think of, from the Wisconsin Humane Society to the Milwaukee Area Domestic Animal Control Commission (MADACC). I had no idea where to start, but I Googled all animal-related places in the Milwaukee area and posted away. Thinking more deeply, I began to go through my contacts at local media outlets.

  “Help. Please help!” Over and over, I sent the plea out.

  Our doorbell rang. Instinctively, I turned to tell Briggs to be quiet, but quickly realized my mistake. I watched silently as Josh shook hands with the police officer and assessed him carefully.

  Everything from his baby face down to the stammering of his words made it apparent that we’d been sent the rookie. I suppose it was for good reason. In the grand scheme of things, a stolen dog is a minor issue in a city torn by poverty, racial division, a high crime index, and political drama.

  Hoping for some advice, I peppered the officer with questions.

  “Where can we go? What can we do? Can the police help?”

  Officer “Baby Face” politely deflected my questions, took down the little information we could give him, interviewed Whitney, advised me against taking my baseball bat around the city on a search-and-rescue mission for Briggs, then went on his way — and that was that. It was clear that there wouldn’t be any police ride-alongs in search of Briggs. Ok, I thought to myself, it looks like this one is on us to solve.

  Stunned, and a little uncertain of what to do, Josh and I started bouncing ideas off of each other. Josh’s phone interrupted us. Fortunately, it was two of Josh’s MHC teammates. They had just seen the Facebook posting and were on their way to help us hang flyers.

  Flyers? Of course, I thought. Not everyone is on the Ol’ Facebook. We seized that plan of action and raced to the nearest FedEx Kinkos. On the way, Josh and I talked about what we should include on the posters. “Stolen Dog” was a
must, as we wanted to evoke an emotional response — emotions being an innate cornerstone of all solid marketing campaigns.

  Our first flyer boldly proclaimed “STOLEN DOG” across the top along with two pictures of Briggs. Beneath that, we gave our full address and Whitney’s description of the dognapper. We made sure to point out that Briggs’ front left paw was white, as if he was wearing a sock.

  Perhaps putting our exact address on a flyer that was to be distributed citywide was not the smartest idea. Maybe we should have just put an advertisement up that proclaimed how easy we were to steal from — that we were sitting ducks, victims, easy targets. The thought briefly crossed my mind that it was idiotic to put our address on the flyer, but for some reason, my instincts pushed me to leave it.

  The rest of the day ticked by — achingly slow — in a fog of posters, tape, and canvassing. There was no plan. No map. No instructions for this situation. Acting solely on impulse and desperation, we stopped, got out, and put up flyers wherever there was room. There was no right or wrong at that point, no protocol. All we could do — and what we had to do — was increase our exposure.

  As I walked the eclectic, mostly youthful part of town centered on Brady Street, I came across a group of three men sitting at a table outside of a Jimmy John’s restaurant, and I handed them a flyer.

  One of the men, a larger black man sporting a brightly colored poncho, read it and stared at me hard.

  “Someone stole your dog? That’s fucked up.”

  “Yes, sir. It is indeed fucked up.”

  Keeping my emotions tamped down, I continued on, handing out flyers to the diners and disrupting happy sub-eating with sorrowful flyers. I also asked if the delivery drivers could put the flyers up in their car windows. We had no idea where Briggs might be spotted, or what a delivered sandwich might lead to.