At this point I usually unleashed Cisco, but to be honest, I wanted to make sure he wasn’t tracking a deer or a raccoon before I let him go. I had spent too many exhausting hours chasing my otherwise reliable dog through the woods to trust him entirely.
Fifteen feet ahead of me Cisco paused, excitedly sniffed the ground and bounded off down the logging road, all but dragging me behind him. Deer, I thought in dismay, for he was far too sure of himself to be on the track of anything useful. Great . I opened my mouth to call him back. But just then Cisco skidded to a stop, sat down abruptly and gave a single startled bark.
I should point out that this behavior is Cisco’s “alert”; it means he has found what he was looking for. In this case the bark did not sound triumphant; it was not the bark of a dog who had done his job and was eager for his reward. It sounded surprised, confused and a little disappointed. No wonder. Cisco had not bravely tracked his victim through thicket and bramble only to find him helpless but grateful in a leaf-covered ditch—which is how we practiced in tracking class. He had, in fact, practically bumped into his target as the Boy Scout came strolling around a bend in the road, drinking a Coke and munching on a giant-sized bag of potato chips.
I stared at him. “Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” he replied, looking far less surprised to see me than I was to see him.
“Are you Ryan?”
“Yeah.” He glanced at Cisco. “Is that your dog?”
A little belatedly, I remembered my training and dug quickly into my backpack for the knotted rope toy that was Cisco’s reward for a good find. “Good boy, Cisco, good find,” I told him and tossed the toy. He caught it in midair, gave it a few happy shakes and then dropped it on the ground, looking expectantly at Ryan—or rather, at the bag of chips.
I said, “Cisco is a search and rescue dog. He’s been looking for you.”
“No kidding.” He looked moderately impressed and munched a handful of chips. “Well, here I am.”
I took out my walkie-talkie and spoke into it. “Base, this is K-9 One,” I said. “We have him. He’s ambulatory and appears unharmed.”
Rick’s voice crackled back, “Where are you?”
I said, glancing around, “About half a mile from Haw-kins Mill, on the north ridge logging road. If you send a jeep we wouldn’t object to a ride back.”
“On our way. Good work, Raine. Tell Cisco I’ve got a dog biscuit with his name on it.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to do better than dog biscuits to compete with what he’s got his eye on now. K-9 One out.
“A lot of people have been looking for you,” I told Ryan, tucking the radio back into my pack. “Your scoutmaster was very worried.”
“Does your dog like chips?” Ryan asked.
“No,” I lied, although it was hard to sound convincing while Cisco was licking long strings of drool from his lips and gazing at the bag of chips with all the yearning of a lost soul for the pearly gates.
Ryan tossed Cisco a potato chip and Cisco caught it in midair with a satisfied crunch. Ryan laughed and I said, “Please don’t feed my dog.”
“He likes them,” insisted the little smart aleck and dug in the bag for more.
“He’s allergic,” I told him, which gave him pause. And then it occurred to me that no one had mentioned that the sunrise hikers had been outfitted with drinks and giant bags of chips. As I looked closely I saw that the pockets of his uniform were bulging with what appeared to be chocolate cookies. “Where did you get those, anyway?”
A wary look came over his face. “It wasn’t really stealing. The car was empty, and the door was open. I called and looked around, but no one came. Besides, the first rule of survival is to find food and shelter. I should get a merit badge.”
I wanted to tell him that the first rule of survival was not to get yourself lost in the first place, but about half a beat behind his words, I actually heard
Fifteen feet ahead of me Cisco paused, excitedly sniffed the ground and bounded off down the logging road, all but dragging me behind him. Deer, I thought in dismay, for he was far too sure of himself to be on the track of anything useful. Great . I opened my mouth to call him back. But just then Cisco skidded to a stop, sat down abruptly and gave a single startled bark.
I should point out that this behavior is Cisco’s “alert”; it means he has found what he was looking for. In this case the bark did not sound triumphant; it was not the bark of a dog who had done his job and was eager for his reward. It sounded surprised, confused and a little disappointed. No wonder. Cisco had not bravely tracked his victim through thicket and bramble only to find him helpless but grateful in a leaf-covered ditch—which is how we practiced in tracking class. He had, in fact, practically bumped into his target as the Boy Scout came strolling around a bend in the road, drinking a Coke and munching on a giant-sized bag of potato chips.
I stared at him. “Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” he replied, looking far less surprised to see me than I was to see him.
“Are you Ryan?”
“Yeah.” He glanced at Cisco. “Is that your dog?”
A little belatedly, I remembered my training and dug quickly into my backpack for the knotted rope toy that was Cisco’s reward for a good find. “Good boy, Cisco, good find,” I told him and tossed the toy. He caught it in midair, gave it a few happy shakes and then dropped it on the ground, looking expectantly at Ryan—or rather, at the bag of chips.
I said, “Cisco is a search and rescue dog. He’s been looking for you.”
“No kidding.” He looked moderately impressed and munched a handful of chips. “Well, here I am.”
I took out my walkie-talkie and spoke into it. “Base, this is K-9 One,” I said. “We have him. He’s ambulatory and appears unharmed.”
Rick’s voice crackled back, “Where are you?”
I said, glancing around, “About half a mile from Haw-kins Mill, on the north ridge logging road. If you send a jeep we wouldn’t object to a ride back.”
“On our way. Good work, Raine. Tell Cisco I’ve got a dog biscuit with his name on it.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to do better than dog biscuits to compete with what he’s got his eye on now. K-9 One out.
“A lot of people have been looking for you,” I told Ryan, tucking the radio back into my pack. “Your scoutmaster was very worried.”
“Does your dog like chips?” Ryan asked.
“No,” I lied, although it was hard to sound convincing while Cisco was licking long strings of drool from his lips and gazing at the bag of chips with all the yearning of a lost soul for the pearly gates.
Ryan tossed Cisco a potato chip and Cisco caught it in midair with a satisfied crunch. Ryan laughed and I said, “Please don’t feed my dog.”
“He likes them,” insisted the little smart aleck and dug in the bag for more.
“He’s allergic,” I told him, which gave him pause. And then it occurred to me that no one had mentioned that the sunrise hikers had been outfitted with drinks and giant bags of chips. As I looked closely I saw that the pockets of his uniform were bulging with what appeared to be chocolate cookies. “Where did you get those, anyway?”
A wary look came over his face. “It wasn’t really stealing. The car was empty, and the door was open. I called and looked around, but no one came. Besides, the first rule of survival is to find food and shelter. I should get a merit badge.”
I wanted to tell him that the first rule of survival was not to get yourself lost in the first place, but about half a beat behind his words, I actually heard
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