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blizzard warnings - 13:52 , 03 October 2013

heelerless - 21:32 , 18 August 2013

Red Coat Inn in Fort McLeod - 11:38 , 23 June 2013

rushing into the waters - 09:53 , 21 June 2013

choosing a spot - 17:43 , 27 April 2013

18 September 2005 - 23:24

ginger

Not sure exactly when it was. Some time after I poured my second mug of coffee at ten (which was cold by the time I got to drink it), but before noon. One of my wardens had stopped by, and we had been visiting with this one particular hunter for twenty minutes or more. When I turned to the side and saw, coming up the entrance lane to my pullout ...

A red heeler.

Not in a truck, mind you. Just a red heeler, not quite in panic mode, trotting off the busy highway, towards us.

I don't even remember what was the point of our conversation right then, but I immediately left it and focused all attention on our new arrival. Who, with only a moment or two of hesitation, came walking up to me.

Close enough to quickly grab the collar. An entrapment she did not even notice, since the other hand was busy giving lots of petting attention.

Naturally, seconds later, another vehicle of hunters pulls off the highway. Gotta get to work, and gotta get this heeler some place safe.

Now, the wife and I have upon occassion posited the theory that God is actually a red heeler. Or at least has a soft spot for them. Because as luck would have it, for some extremely rare reason, I had no red heelers in my truck today. The masked one had been eager to come along, but her sister clearly wanted to stay in bed with the wife.

And there's no point in making one heeler suffer hours of boredom by herself. So, I left them both at home.

A rare event.

So, as the hunters pull in to park, I scoop up the surprised heeler (also to the surprise of the warden and friend) and slip her into my rig.

And now, as if it was a vacuum that needed to be filled, I have a red heeler in my truck. Even if not quite purebred, looking to have some collie mixed in.

She was none too sure about the arrangement at first. Either afraid of the heelers' smells that I'm sure permeate the cab, or because she just simply had never been allowed in the cab of a truck before. But the skinny little thing curled up tight, right there in the driver's seat, and didn't budge while I worked.

Wasn't too much later that the wife arrived, bearing the Sunday paper.

Guess what I've got in my truck...

She guessed wrong.

But was thrilled to meet my visitor, who soon learned why the wife has the nickname "The Biscuit Lady". Her handy baggie of dog biscuits quickly half depleted by the hungry guest. Not to mention a water bowl soon half emptied.

The only identification on the heeler was a local rabies tag, but it was current, and the collar new, so somebody cares about you, girl.

I call one of the vets. And, even though it's a Sunday, he'll be in the clinic in a few hours, and can look up the record for the rabies tag number.

He points out the city police would pick up the dog and take it to the Pound for me.

Uhhh, no. Wife and I already discussed that. If we can't find her owners today, she's coming home with us, not to some pound. We've had stray heelers as overnight guests before. So, the wife heads off for home, offering to come back and deliver this lost dog to her home if needed.

Myself, I can't imagine her owners not dashing out to my check station to retrieve this little sweetheart as soon as they hear where she is.

So, we wait. And get acquainted for a few hours until the vet can check his records.

I find, in addition to biscuits, this red heeler likes vienna sausages. And chocolate muffin. And from some angles, she looks so like someone else.

As the sun quarters down to the west, my guest is forced to shift out of the driver's seat to stay out of the hot rays, eventually ending up on the passenger side, me only half in the cab with my butt on the edge of the seat (and yes, this close to the highway and the windows and door open, I had the heeler leashed to the steering wheel).

Several times she falls into fast, hard deep sleeps, like she hasn't had any real rest for some time. Only to be awakened by yet another hunters' truck arriving.

Twice I had folks happily remark "I see you've got your dog with you..."

Well, actually, no, I don't ....

But, when we aren't working, and she isn't sleeping, there is still that sadness in her eyes.

She's lost, and as nice as you people are, you're not doing a thing to help me be found.

Either that, or she's worried she'll get in trouble for being in the cab of a truck. "But hey, you people got cushions in the front of trucks! Nobody told me there were cushioned seats in the cab."

A little before four I call the vet.

Her name is Ginger.

And while I don't recognize her owner's first name, I know his last. Turns out the fellow I know with that surname, with ranchland about ten miles away, is her owner's son. I leave a message on their machine, and later a warden offers to call the son on his cell phone. Apparently he's out hunting antelope.

Two hours later, I recognize their ranch truck pulling into my check station. Complete with an antelope in back.

Hey, I got something of yours.

He peeks in the cab.

"Ain't mine."

Well, her tag number says she's your Dad's.

"Oh."

Turns out, this is Ginger's second solo excursion in just a few days, her last ending up in the pound. Seems she takes off and follows her owner when he makes trips into town.

About five to six miles. One way.

No wonder she's got a broken toenail.

She refuses to get out of my truck. He's being as nice and polite as can be, but she has just found out there is such a thing as heeler heaven. A place where people hand you biscuits and sausages, and let you sleep on cushioned seats, a hand constantly scritching your neck. And when they turn on the truck, cold air comes out of the vents!

She likes it.

But she is soon coaxed out, and resumes her normal, ranchdog place. Glaring at the dead thing she has to share it with.

And then, she is gone.

And there is an empty space in my truck again.

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