One day, there was a boxer who was lost and was on the opposite side of the river from where we walk the dogs. He called for help but only briefly, so that I wasnt fully aware of it. I thought he might belong to a homeless camp in the area. The next day, my partner was walking the dogs again, and she heard the cries for help.
I drove across the bridge around to the other side of the river. I had to slosh across a couple of side channels to get to where he was. I stopped at the homeless camp to ask if they had a dog; they didn't.
I trekked on through the thick brush to where the dog was. My dogs scared him off at first, but Jazzy, my little ambassador, warmed up to him, and after about an hour of me ignoring him and him getting to know the pack, he came into range for me to grab the cable he was pulling. It was broken, frayed, and it cut my hands pretty bad, but I hung on and laid on my back exposing my throat to him until he calmed down, and I was able to put my own leash on him. I took off his collar and the cable still attached to it. It was way too loose because he had lost a lot of weight, being lost for 5 days. He had a a tag with a phone number, and it turns out he lived just at the top of the hill on the other side of the river that he was afraid to cross; don't know how he got over there though...
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