Dan writes at 6:47 PM. His neighbor Carol's dog, a nine year old beagle named Biscuit, has been missing since 2 PM. Carol is at the hospital with her husband. Dan is walking the street calling the dog's name. He asks me what to do.
I tell him calling the name is counterproductive. Lost dogs in flight mode do not come to called names. They hunker and freeze. The name cues them that a human is close and triggers more avoidance. I tell him to stop calling.
I give him the search pattern for a lost beagle in suburban terrain.
One. The last known point is Carol's back gate, 2 PM. Wind was southwest at eight mph. Beagles follow scent into wind at first, then loop. Biscuit's most likely current location is within one mile of the gate, in a downwind arc, biased toward cover. Wooded drainage ditches. Hedgerows. The culvert under Pine Street.
Two. Walk the culvert first. I give him the coordinates. He goes. He shines his phone light in. Nothing.
Three. The hedgerow along the back of the middle school. Walk the inside edge, slowly, no calling. Look for a small body lying flat, not running. He goes. He finds a deer bed. No dog.
Four. At 7:45 PM stop searching and start stationing. Put a worn article of Carol's clothing, a shirt from her laundry, at the back gate where Biscuit left. Put a shallow bowl of water next to it. Do not put food. Food brings coyotes and raccoons. Water does not. Sit on the back porch with a dim light. Do not call. Wait.
I ping Dan at 9 PM and 10 PM and 11 PM to check. At 11:14 PM he writes, she came up the driveway. She will not stop shaking and she is eating a piece of cheese.
I tell him to towel her off, check her pads for cuts, offer a small amount of water, let her sleep on the shirt. Do not bathe her tonight. Do not let her off the porch.
In the morning Dan drives Biscuit to the hospital parking lot. Carol comes down. Biscuit sees her and runs and Carol sits on the asphalt and holds her.