Atlanta, GA
February 18, 2026
Atlanta is carved from a forest. Trees are thick throughout the city and on its outskirts. That’s where we are, on the rolling slopes of the Appalachian Piedmont.
Around us, deer roam, foxes frolic, and soaring hawks eye unsuspecting prey. A fence confines our property, to keep critters out and our dog in.
It doesn’t always work. Friday evening, shortly before my wife and I were leaving for dinner, I let the dog out as dusk descended. After a few seconds sniffing beneath a bush, Rocky turned his head and dashed toward the far fence.
On the other side were a buck and doe. Like a diner glimpsing the bus boy refilling his water glass, the deer gave our black lab a glance… then resumed eating the surrounding weeds.
I was watching from our elevated deck, amused at our brave pup behind his barrier. I didn’t laugh long. Hair raised and ears back, our determined dog scoured the base of the fence, found an opening, and slid through.
Within seconds, the deer fled into the woods, our retriever hot on their tiny tails. They bolted through the trees, over a brook… and out of sight.
Our dog went with them, and I chased him. But I had to hop the fence he’d burrowed under. By the time I did, Rocky was gone.
The sun fell as the forest faded. After several minutes I saw his silhouette beside a stream in an open field. When I got close, he darted away.
I ran after him, dodging low limbs as he scampered through the trees. Within minutes, he’d lost me again. From the forest, I entered another clearing. At the far end beside a creek, Rocky was sniffing at the base of a ridge.
For a moment I was relieved. At about sixty degrees, the pitch was steep. Finally, my target was trapped.
Until it wasn’t. When I walked toward him, Rocky hurried up the ridge.
I climbed (and crawled) about a quarter the way up. About twice as high, perched like a mountain goat in the Rockies, my dog taunted his owner with a condescending stare. As I tried to ascend, he leapt to the summit and slipped from view.
Inching up the incline, I felt like Tommy Lee Jones in The Fugitive, mocked by my escapee as he scurried away. Using scattered stones for intermittent support, I made my way up the embankment.
At the top, there was no sign of my crafty canine. I’d emerged at a fork in a road… so I took it. By now shadows had vanished, and visibility dimmed.
Within a few minutes, darkness would camouflage Rocky not only from his pursuer, but from wandering coyotes and passing cars. But the real danger lay at home, where my wife would be heartbroken without her hound. I had to find him.
Behind me, down the hill, I heard barking. It wasn’t from the dog I sought. But maybe it was aimed at the pooch I was after. Running toward the sound, I was relieved to be right.
Through a front window of a nearby house, some mutt was going ballistic watching my dog mark another pup’s property. Apprehensively, I edged closer.
As I approached, Rocky signaled he’d had enough. As if nothing had happened, he looked up, wagged his tail, and let me grab his collar. Out of breath after sprinting, tripping, hopping streams, dodging trees, and scaling ravines, I took a moment to get some air.
I’d need it. I was about a mile from our house, and had no leash to walk Rocky home. So I carried the fifty-pound pup all the way back.
Reaching the door, Rocky waltzed in, went to his water, and lapped it up… then calmly curled by the couch at my wife’s feet. I staggered behind him, resembling a Frenchman on the retreat from Russia.
Finishing some work, Rita was almost ready to go to dinner. From her laptop, she looked up and saw her husband.
“You ready to go? Or do you need to take the dog out first?”
JD
PS - Although my dog led me halfway across north Georgia, I’ve trekked to other places too. From France to Estonia, East Africa to Central America, I capture historical, cultural, and economic insights in a captivating volume that’s now available at this link, or by clicking the image below:
Every dog owner's nightmare. Carrying a 50 pound dog for about a mile over rugged terrain is quite a feat.
Same escape happened to me, several times no less, when our puppies were young and frisky.
Once in traffic and two other times in the countryside where our two terriers --brother and sister -- dashed into dense woods like lightening bolts.
Fortunately, they had on their collars some device that revealed to my wife's cell phone were they were.
After considerable trudging through thick underbrush, we cornered them. They were not happy being found, less so being leashed up.