Shy Kora

Cold mornings are good mornings to explore the woods – nothing is biting or stinging, and the air is so crisp that I can smell and hear everything. I lift my head and taste the scent of dogs and horses and alphas. Some of the horses and alphas are familiar, but their scent is coming from ahead when it should be at the stables behind. Curious, I follow my nose to a large clearing that is full of noisy animals. The anticipation in the air is contagious and I express it in my speed.

“Mom, look!”

My son and I had been attending our first “drag hunt” (essentially a foxhunt on horseback with no fox, just the fox’s scent laid along a predetermined path). We stood among the huddled groups of spectators at the starting field where the smartly attired riders, their horses with braided manes, and impatient hounds milled about. My eight-year-old son was pointing to a black animal streaking the length of the field that served as the hunt’s starting point.

“Whose dog is that?” the huntsman demanded, for even hounds as well-trained as his were having a difficult time ignoring the interloper.

Heads turned in search of the guilty party as the black blur continued making its hypersonic circuits of the field. My eyes could barely keep up with its flight to determine the breed, something long and lean in every aspect – pointed ears, lolling tongue, thin tail, sleek body, slender legs – a streamlined animal built for the joy of speed. I pitied the person tasked with catching it.

“That’s Kora,” I heard one of the riders tell the huntsman. “She belongs to the stables next door.”

Kora eventually found her way back to the stables and the hunt commenced without further incident.

We saw Kora again a few months later at the same stables, for it was coincidentally where my niece had begun teaching my son the finer points of horsemanship. He saw the dog peeking from behind the large building of horse stalls when we arrived.

“Kora,” he called, remembering her from the hunt. She wagged her tail in a friendly manner but refused to close the distance between them.

“She’s super shy,” my niece explained to my disappointed son. “She never lets anyone near her.”

After the lesson, while I chatted with my niece, my son managed to coax the dog close enough for a brief pat. When I approached the pair, Kora darted away. But my son was beaming, having succeeded where so many others had not.

The night is cold and quiet except for the breathing of the horses and the soft steps of barn cats prowling. As I burrow into the hay, I am thinking about the small alpha I met earlier. I had liked its smell and the sound of its voice. It was not loud and large like the others, and never showed its teeth until its large alpha came. I had let it touch my head, and the sensation was terrible and wonderful at the same time. I hope the small alpha comes back again.

The next few lessons went much the same way – Kora would allow my son to approach and pat her head, and she’d make herself comfortable on the nearby picnic table to watch while he learned to ride, but she’d never let me get within touching distance. According to my niece, Kora’s owner was the woman leasing the stables, where the dog lived among the horses and handful of cats.

One day, my son called me over to look at a new notice on the stable’s bulletin board. It read:

• IN NEED OF A GOOD HOME:
• Koraline, female, 2-yr old whippet mix
• Spade, shots up to date
• Very sweet, great with other animals

“Is Kora’s name Koraline? Is that notice about her?” my son asked.

My niece confirmed that yes, Kora’s owner was moving upstate to an apartment that didn’t allow dogs.

“We should adopt her, mom!” he pleaded.

“I wish we could, honey,” I said and went on to explain that our canine-averse landlord would never consent to another dog; our mellow 12-year-old shepherd mix had almost been a deal-breaker.

“What’s going to happen to Kora if nobody wants her?” my son asked, troubled.

“Don’t worry – I’m sure someone will.”

But Kora remained at the stables over the next few weeks, and the adoption plea on the bulletin board grew blurred and faded. “I wish we could adopt Kora,” my son repeated often, while I wished someone would take the poor dog.

About a month following the appearance of the notice, while my son hurried to untack his lesson horse (so he could play with Kora) I asked my niece if she’d heard any updates on the dog’s adoption prospects. She relayed the dismaying news that there were no takers and Kora’s owner was planning on turning her over to the local SPCA in two days.

With slow steps I approached my son, who was now playing with the frisky dog. She had grown brave enough to accept his ear scratches and give hesitant kisses in return but would remain close for only a second or two before leaping away, as if such proximity was more than she could bear. “What’s going to happen to Kora if nobody wants her?” he asked again, as if reading my mind.

I sighed. “She’ll go to the SPCA, and they’ll find her a really good home.”

His face grew panicked. “Nobody’s going to want her, mom! They’ll think she’s not friendly!”

“Honey, they’re really good at matching dogs with just the right people – they’ll find someone who understands her.”

“She doesn’t like anyone until she really knows them, and it takes her a long time,” he said, insistent and serious.

My son had been diagnosed with PDD-NOS (pervasive developmental delay - not otherwise specified) at the age of two, which evolved into a diagnosis of ASD (autism spectrum disorder) at the age of four. He knew all about some things taking longer for some people to grasp – particularly social mannerisms.

I sighed again as I gave Kora an appraising look. She was gangly, but her coat was as smooth and glossy as the horses with which she resided. There wasn’t a lot there in terms of personality – she was instead defined by the kind of lithe wariness more suited to wild animals than domestic ones. I thought back to the many pet shelters I had visited in the past. Of the last two dogs I’d adopted, one was a Siberian husky – chosen for her good looks and cheerful disposition; the other was our current dog, a friendly brindle shepherd mix who had won the heart of my husband when, in a show of instant loyalty, stayed at his heel in the shelter’s yard, ignoring every other human there.

I wore with sanctimonious pride my stance on shelter adoption when it came to pets. But thinking back on it, I realized with a sudden stab of guilt that my focus had extended to only the most appealing dogs, aesthetic and brimming with evident character, dogs who would have little trouble finding homes had I not discovered them first. I imagined Kora at a shelter, curled and cowering in the kennel’s furthest corner, not far enough from every stranger’s hand. Not friendly, is what I would have labeled her, as I’d labeled many shy dogs before.

When my son saw me using my phone to take a picture of Kora, his face lit a little, then brightened fully when he saw me taking a picture of the notice with the owner’s phone number.

“Don’t get your hopes up, kiddo,” I told him on the way to the car. “Your dad and I have a lot to think about. Just let me do the talking, cool?”

Little else was discussed that evening. The cons were many, but the one pro that outweighed them all was our capacity, with some manageable sacrifice, to rescue the shy animal who had built an inexplicable bond with our son. It was with many misgivings that we decided to give it a go.

The arrangements were made the following morning and by noon I was on my way to pick up the dog. I didn’t see her when I arrived at the stables, but her owner was there to meet me in the lot.

“Kora!” she hollered, and the dog came streaking from the woods, slowing to a trot upon seeing me. “Kora, come!” she demanded, and Kora crept forth, ears plastered to her head, tail hidden beneath her, wary of me and even more wary of my car. “She’s shy but real sweet.”

“How is she in cars?” I asked. My husband had lashed our old dog kennel to the back seat in case the dog had unsafe vehicular manners.

“She’s good,” said the woman as she opened my passenger door. Before I knew it, she had caught up the reluctant dog, set her inside on the front seat, and got the door shut again before an escape could be made. She knocked on the window as the frantic dog clawed it. “Goodbye, Kora,” she said. “You be a good dog.”

Then she looked at me. “You have my number if you have any questions about her. Sorry to rush, but I’m heading out of town tomorrow and have so much to do.”

She turned and went back to the stables. The transfer was complete. We had a new dog, and I had several second thoughts as Kora cringed away from me when I got behind the wheel.

My heart is hammering so loud it’s hurting my ears. The alpha-alpha is gone, and I am trapped inside one of the loud, hard, shiny things that reek of ancient death and shake the earth, drowning nature’s pulse. I am dizzy and miserable, and there’s no room to run. And suddenly I’m moving without running. I can see my home shrinking in the distance. I want to howl, but my dry throat can only emit soft, miserable whines. I reach for some solace and find it in the scent of the small alpha, who has been in this loud, hard, shiny thing before.

Throughout the ride home, Kora’s respiration was at about 200 pants per minute. I crooned soft words of comfort while driving, but she remained pressed against the passenger door, as far from me as she could get. I lowered the window on her side a few inches, because what dog doesn’t love the rush of speed-generated wind in their face? The small puddle Kora left on my seat indicated she was one such creature.

When I at last pulled into the driveway and cut the motor, Kora visibly relaxed in her now-inert environment. I hooked a leash to her collar, and she jumped with relief from the car. We walked around the front of the house a bit so she could finish emptying her tank before heading into her new home.

Once inside and liberated from the leash, Kora proceeded to make acquaintances with Gracie, our 12-year-old shepherd-mix. They exchanged cursory sniffs and obligatory tail wags while I stood by, ready to intervene if things turned ugly. Their body language indicated their instant understanding that Gracie was the dominant one. I watched their interaction, mulling their differences. While almost the same height, Gracie had a good 20 pounds more meat on her bones, in stark contrast to Kora’s willowy frame. Gracie was a mass of multicolored cottony fluff, while Kora’s short fur was a solid lustrous black, except for a bit of white around her nose, toes, chest, and the very tip of her tail. Gracie was an outgoing dog who loved people and car rides. Kora was by all appearances a neurotic introvert.

This place is strange – soft and warm, and full of good smells: food, a cat, and another dog – I can smell that the little alpha spends a lot of time here, too, but is not here now. There’s not a lot of room to run. I want to hide, but the dog I can smell has come into view. This is her place and she is the matriarch – a sub-alpha. She’s big but probably can’t run as fast as I can. Still, I hope I don’t do anything to displease her.

Canine formalities completed, Kora indulged her curiosity about her new surroundings, zipping from room to room, her nose twitching like a rabbit’s as she explored (or more likely searched for an escape route). Nonplussed, Gracie lumbered behind to keep an eye on the newcomer. There was not the least bit of aggression between the two. That was easy, I thought, putting a green checkmark next to the canine meet-and-greet box on my mental list of concerns.

I heard the scrabbling of claws on wood and turned in time to see Kora circle and lie sedately on top of the dining room table. “No, no, no – off the table,” I said in my firm voice. Sofas and beds were free zones in our home, but the line had to be drawn somewhere.

Kora complied, cringed past me, and ran to the patio door. As I was about to let her into the fenced-in back yard, it occurred to me for the first time that, while the six-inch gaps between fence slats were narrow enough to contain Gracie, they might not be for Kora’s slender build. I put her on the extendable leash and accompanied her while investigated the yard. Sure enough, she was able to slip through the first fence gap she tried without difficulty (unless you counted getting her back through). I added that hiccup to my mental checklist.

The outside is cold compared to the warmth of the inside. The smells out here are interesting – lots of dogs and cats close by, and hidden squirrels and rabbits to flush and chase. I want to run, but the leash attached to my collar won’t allow it. I wonder if the alpha holding it is the new alpha-alpha.

I praised Kora mightily after she relieved herself, and we headed inside to get her a treat, but she refused it. “Still too freaked out, huh?” I asked her. She winced and flattened her ears as I patted her head, and I wondered if there was a personality buried within and if so, how long before she felt secure enough to let it out.

My husband and son arrived home not long after, having come from a friend’s birthday party. Kora barked ferociously (from a distance) at my husband. “At least she’ll make a good watch dog,” he laughed.

“Kora!” exclaimed my son. She crept toward him. “We bought you a harness and some chew toys” he told her as she sniffed the bag from the pet store. “Can I take her for a walk?” The question was directed at me; he couldn’t wait to show off his new dog to his friend down the street.

“Just to your friend’s house and back, okay? Kora’s had a long day already.”

“Okay, mom,” he said. He held the trembling dog while my husband demonstrated how to fasten the harness.

“Keep a tight hold on that leash,” I told my son as I stuffed a couple of poop bags into his pocket.

“Okay, mom,” he repeated in a long-suffering voice. I followed him out the door and watched him walk his new dog down the sidewalk, not taking my eyes off the pair until they reached the driveway of his friend’s house. I could only see my son from the back, but his posture somehow indicated he was grinning from ear to ear, his dream of owning this timid dog finally fulfilled. Happy that he was happy, I went back inside; I had a car seat to clean.

I like walking with the little alpha outside – so many new sights and smells to explore, but there’s something unfamiliar around my chest and midsection that’s attached to the leash – whenever I try to run, it pulls me back. We head toward a structure that is strong with the smell of alphas and dog. And then suddenly they are rushing from the structure – many little alphas, a large alpha, and a very large dog, who sees me and flashes a warning with his white teeth. I am overwhelmed with the urge to run, but the leash won’t allow it. Terrified, I duck and retreat and feel the straps of the unfamiliar thing slipping over my head. And then I am running.

Just as I was heading out the door with my arms laden with cleaning supplies, the phone rang. It was the mom of my son’s friend.

“Bad news,” she said immediately. “Kora slipped out of her harness and took off.”

“Oh, no!” Ice gripped my stomach as my mind raced. She can’t have gone far. She knows me and the house well enough to come back. She was here for an hour. Is that long enough for her to know this is her home? How on earth did she escape her harness?

“My two sons are out looking for her right now,” the friend’s mom said. “So is yours, but he’s pretty upset.”

An understatement for sure. “On my way,” I said, grabbing Gracie’s leash and running out the door.

We didn’t see Kora again that day.

“It’s my fault,” my son sobbed over dinner that night. We’d spent the remainder of the afternoon combing the neighborhood in search of the dog, both on bike and on foot. We affixed flyers to light posts and local bulletin boards, all displaying the single photo of Kora I had taken the day before and the promise of a reward upon capture, which inspired numerous neighborhood children to join the search. I had calls in to animal control and the local animal shelters (and an email to the local police department) so they’d know to contact me if the dog was found.

“No, it’s not, baby,” I said, and “We’ll get her back,” my husband said at the same time.

“She’s cold and hungry and all alone,” my son cried, refusing to be consoled.

“She’s used to being outside and alone,” I reminded him, doubting the dog had ever spent an indoor day in her life, not counting a horse stall. Still, I was worried – it was cold; midwinter in the low country can bring snow and ice on occasion, and the weather was chilly enough for it on that evening. None of us slept well that night.

There are lots of scary things and scary sounds, too many of the loud, hard, shiny things, and alphas that chase me, but there’s lots of level ground with short grass that’s perfect for speed – as long as I can run, nothing can catch me. I’m hungry and wonder if the alpha-alpha will bring food. It’s cold and I can smell no hay. I bury myself in a carpet of pine needles beneath a clump of bushes, but sleep is not easy with all the unfamiliar noises. I miss the smell of horses and the alpha-alpha who brings food. I sense my home is far away, but nature’s pulse will show me the way back.

The next day was full of sunny and hopeful spurts that were all too soon smothered by clouds of disappointment. Calls about Kora sightings were coming in every hour or so from neighbors who had spotted the black blur sprinting through their yard, or down by the pond, or hanging around by the pool. But Kora would be gone by the time we’d get there. Every failure was a bigger letdown than the last.

Late that afternoon, during one of my many hunts for the dog, I saw her with my own eyes far down the street, sedately crossing the road. “Kora!” I bellowed. She halted. I walked slowly towards her, armed with Milk-Bones, telling her what a good dog she was. She waited until I was about 50 feet away before erupting into flight. “Kora,” I wailed, pounding after her. But it was no contest – I lost visual in a matter of seconds. A couple of nearby children took up the chase, but they had no more luck than I.

I am thinking about the new alpha-alpha as I settle into the pine needles for another night. I saw the new alpha-alpha earlier, and it sounded so much like the old alpha-alpha that I almost went to it. But the urge to run was stronger. My stomach rumbles, but I am tired. I will search for food in the morning.

The next day was a depressing one. An overnight call informed us that the dog had been spotted in the woods behind the neighborhood. We searched the area the moment the sun was up, but saw neither hide nor hair of our lost pooch. I spent hours slowly driving through the community, and then spread my search radius to adjacent communities. Nothing. And the phone offered only grim silence.

“Maybe she got hit by a car,” my husband suggested in a sad voice after our sad son had gone to bed that evening.

“Maybe,” I said. “Though she’s pretty scared of cars. I’m thinking she might be heading back to the stables.”

“What is it, six, seven miles away?” He frowned. “I guess it’s possible – I’ve heard of dogs finding their way home over bigger distances.” He pulled up a map of the area on his laptop – the woods behind our neighborhood where Kora was last spotted was on a direct line between our house and the stables, and that line equated to a direct distance of less than five miles.

The next day was chilly with temperatures threatening to dip below the freezing threshold. My husband headed out in his truck to check the stables and the miles between while I continued the community search. But our efforts bore no more fruit than those of the day before. That evening I scoured the internet for advice about luring wayward dogs, just in case we got lucky enough to encounter her again.

“Listen to this,” I said to my husband as my son was getting ready for bed in his room. “There’s a vet who wrote a blog about catching escaped dogs, and one way to get some of them to come to you is to fall on the ground and pretend to be injured.”

“I’m sure that works well with the kinds of dog that want to eat you,” my husband smiled.

Before I could tell him it was supposed to work with curious and/or empathetic dogs, my phone rang – a local number.

“Hello?” I answered hopefully.

“Hello, are you the one with a missing dog?” asked a woman’s voice.

“Yes, yes – do you have her?” I held a hopeful breath.

“No, but we saw her, just now, medium-sized black dog heading south down the road from the community entrance.”

My mind raced. She was still in the neighborhood! And heading south. And our house was only a couple hundred yards south from the neighborhood entrance – she was heading our way!

“Thank you!” I gasped, making wild gestures at my husband. “I’ll call you back if we catch her – there’s a reward...”

“Naw, we ain’t interested in that. We just hope you get her back.”

“Thank you!” I said again, rushing into the kitchen to grab a can of smelly cat food.

My husband accompanied me into the brisk night air and as we headed down the driveway, he suddenly grabbed my arm. “Look,” he whispered, pointing.

There she was, a black dog barely visible in the darkness, trotting with nonchalant ticking steps down the street toward us.

“Hang back – she barely knows you,” I hissed to my husband as I made my stealthy way forward.

I am heading to my pine needles after a long day of hunting small animals in the woods and digging in the cold, hard earth for roots and bulbs that are dry and hard to chew. I am cold and still hungry even though I chased a cat away from a few mouthfuls of soft and delicious food. I’m too tired to look for more. The familiar smell of the new alpha-alpha comes drifting on the air. I can see it up ahead as my stomach rumbles.

Kora paused when I reached the sidewalk, and I froze. She began trotting again, eyeing me warily as she crossed to the far side of the street. She continued on her way, passing me, and I was afraid if I called out she would bolt. With frantic, fumbling fingers, I popped the top off the can of cat food, causing her to jump and increase her pace. “Kora, c’mon,” I pleaded in a quiet voice as she continued her fade into the dark night.

Suddenly, I heard a loud groan from my husband. “Ow, ow, ow,” he cried, collapsing to the lawn and clutching his knee. I watched with a mix of amusement and irritation as he rolled around, feigning agony. If that didn’t scare the dog off for good, nothing would.

But to my astonishment, Kora stopped and turned to come back.

The large, scary alpha is making strange noises. It is on the ground. Large alphas are never on the ground. This is new and must be investigated. It may be dangerous, and I’m very tired, but I can still run if I need to….

Thankful I was wearing a wooly sweater but wishing I had thought to grab my coat, I sunk to the sidewalk, feeling its chill through my thin jeans and hoping I wasn’t about to prove out the old wives’ tale about cold concrete causing hemorrhoids. I scooped some of the squishy, smelly cat food from the can with my fingers and flicked it with a soft plop to the sidewalk a few feet away. I sat still as a statue, watching Kora craning to sniff at my moaning husband from a safe distance. And then, like a homing laser beam, her nose swung toward me.

The new alpha-alpha has brought food! It is the best thing I’ve ever smelled…

I held my breath as the dog approached with cautious moves. Her nose found the lump of pungent mush and she lapped it up, never taking her eyes off me. I tossed another scoop, letting it land closer. In this repeated manner, I enticed her with patient portions, silently cursing whenever the blinding headlights of a car roared past, causing Kora to retreat and the tedious process to begin anew. I started panicking when my supply of cat food grew low – I had to make the last bit count. When Kora finally got within reach, I saw her muscles tense, ready to launch. This is it, I thought, steeling myself for the battle ahead. My arms shot out and my hands wrapped around her forelegs.

Instead of biting, Kora let out a yelp of surprise, and then seemed to melt with exhaustion. I lifted her gently, prepared to firm up my grip if she struggled, but she didn’t. As my triumphant steps carried the limp dog inside, I noticed she carried with her a stench that rivaled that of the canned cat food, and I tried not to think about all the creepy-crawlies likely hidden in her fur. Task One was a bath, but only after a quick celebratory dance for having at last recovered our prodigal dog. The hunt was over, and no treasure was ever more precious than the joy in my son’s eyes when I brought his dog through the door.

That evening, Kora surprised us by leaving the warmth of our son’s bed and finding her way to ours. She jumped up and crept between us, flicking kisses and snuggling against me. “See what you were missing?” I murmured, reaching out to give her ear a tentative scratch. I was shocked when she shoved her head into my hand. The first time I saw that look of undiluted love and adoration on her sweet face is something I will carry with me always.

I am feeling something I’ve never felt and it is very good. I am warm and my belly is full, and I know, somehow, that nothing will hurt me here. These alphas are my family and they will protect me and I will protect them.

From that moment forward, Kora was one of us – my shadow, my husband’s trickster, my other pets’ playmate, and my son’s sibling, comfort dog, and best friend – the sweetest and most loyal friend one could hope for. She’s still super shy around strangers, a hater of cars, and an escape artist of harnesses, but she is also a spirited dog who lives to please, loves cuddles and kisses and chew toys and chasing anything and being chased by us (in the confines of fences of course).

EPILOGUE

As of this writing, Kora is almost 13 years old. She grew up with my son, who is about to graduate high school. Much of her black fur has turned white, her speed has lessened, and her shape is rounder. But her playful spirit, her unwavering love and devotion, her emotional care of the whole family – none of that has diminished. We know our time with her is growing short, and we’re cherishing every moment. When she eventually moves on, leaving room in our loving home for another dog (or perhaps two or three), we will be keeping a sharp eye out for the shy ones.