Pharoah

My mother writes a weekly column for several newspapers in Mississippi and a few surrounding states. I've shared her words from time to time here. Her most recent column is one that is quite personal, and relays an event that has actually dampened the spirits of our entire family. Her friend Pharaoh is missing, and we can't find him. Lead after lead after lead has turned up empty. Those of you with beloved pets know how they can become parts of the family. How they can become such wonderful friends and companions. And it has occurred to me -- especially in the last two weeks -- that even as we grow older, even as we move out of our parents' homes and into our own, wherever Mom and Dad live still feels as much like home as it did when we were children. Their refrigerator is still our refrigerator. Their food, our food. Their beds, our beds. Their pets . . . . our pets. Their comfort, our comfort.

I'm sharing this in part because I think what she has written is quite beautiful and quite moving. But I'm also sharing it, because even though I realize a great many of you that read this will never be able to help us find Pharaoh, there just might be one of you out there that can.

Go hug your furry friends. And if you see Pharaoh running around, will you promise to call?

~wj


SNIPPETS

by Beth Boswell Jacks

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Sharing my sadness...



"A dog is the only thing on this earth

that loves you more than he loves himself."

~ Josh Billings


A little over 7 years ago, Pharaoh came to live at our house. I've mentioned Pharaoh in this column many times, for he has been a much loved, valued member of our family.

Pha was born in a litter of 8 puppies to Molly Jet of McComb, Mississippi, a solid black, lab-looking pooch that wandered up to daughter Bethany Dowdy's house and was immediately adopted. Granddaughter Beth named her Molly Jet because she couldn't decide between the two names and, anyway, all the girls in Beth's class had double names.

Pharaoh's father was a yellow-furred, wandering mutt, who jumped the fence, had his way with Molly Jet, and then re-jumped, disappearing, never to return.

So Molly Jet had these 8 puppies on a fine spring day, just a couple of weeks before I was scheduled to baby-sit with the 4 Dowdy grandchildren - Wayne, Beth, Wilkins and Jacks. Those who have never kept 4 kids and 8 brand new puppies for several days have no idea what they've missed, and I honestly don't have the words to describe the experience.

Suffice it to say, things were hopping around there with mucho kids and dogs. The mop got a workout in the laundry room, wherein (temporarily) resided Molly Jet and her progeny. I was patient and long-suffering, for in spite of the doggie deposits, along with the children I fell in love with the pups.

Bethany remained firm over the following weeks, as the kids, each having selected a favorite, begged to keep at least 4 of the little monsters. "No," Bethany said, "we're up to our whiskers in pets. We can't keep the puppies!"

Grandson Wayne, then 5 years old, had another plan, begging hubby G-Man and me to take his pick of the litter, the biggest puppy of all. "Bebe and Pop," he said, "if you'll take Pharaoh to your house I can watch him grow up!" (Wayne was into Egyptians and pyramids at the time.)

Could any grandparent resist such a plea? Not these two.

Pharaoh came home with us and just about edged G-Man out as ruler of the house. We've had wonderful pets over the years, but PhaPha was the best ever. Sweet, smart, patient, affectionate, loyal, trusting -- the most faithful dog I've ever known.

He loved to go with us out to the barn, where he ran top speed in the hay pasture, chased rabbits, and dashed across the field to visit his labrador buddy, Mozart. But two weeks ago he took off on a run and didn't come back. We've searched everywhere, followed every lead, passed out dozens of flyers offering a reward, advertised in the paper, checked with the animal shelter, enlisted our postal delivery folks' help, called the vets. Our efforts have been in vain.

I search every day, stopping to speak to strangers: "Have you seen a German Shepherd-looking mixed breed dog, about 90 pounds, black and brown and tan, with beautiful eyes and a fluffy tail?"

Always the answer is no, but some of these same strangers tell me not to lose hope. Friends and strangers alike have shared stories of lost pets that showed up again months after they disappeared. They assure me such miracles do happen.

Maybe he's pinned up and when he gets loose he'll head for home. Maybe he's found a girlfriend and he's enjoying his courtship. Maybe he wandered too far and is taking a circuitous route back. Maybe . . .

The grandchildren are heartbroken, G-Man and I are heartbroken, and somewhere I know that our Pharaoh is heartbroken. I know if he's still alive he's yearning for us as much as we're yearning for him, and that makes me so sad. If we only knew where to look.

Losing a precious pet is one of life's toughest experiences; I'll never look at a poor, wandering dog in the same way. As writer Emil Zola once penned: "Why is it that my heart is so touched whenever I meet a dog lost in our noisy streets? Why do I feel such anguished pity when I see one of these creatures coming and going, sniffing everyone, frightened, despairing of ever finding its master?"


Pharaoh, I can't find you. Please find me!