“Thank you, ” she told the man. “It’s kind of you to offer. But no,no,” she repeated firmly, “Snoopy’s part of the family, and families don’t give up on each other.” She reached for the telephone book, looked up “Kennels” in the Yellow Pages, and began dialing. Scrupulously, she started each call with the explanation that the family was down on their luck. “But,”she begged, “if you’ll just keep our little dog until we can find a way to get her to Fort Wayne, I give you my word we’ll pay. Please trust me. Please.”
A veterinary clinic, which also boarded pets, finally agreed, and the Travelers’ Aid representative drove them to the place. Nancy was the last to say good-bye. She knelt and took Snoopy’s frosted muzzle in her hands. “You know we’d never leave you if we could help it,” she whispered, “so don’t give up; don’t you dare give up. We’ll get you back somehow. I promise.”
Once back in Fort Wayne, the Topps found a mobile home to rent, one of Joe’s brothers gave them his old car, sisters-in-law provided pots and pans and bed linens, the children returned to their old schools, and Nancy and Joe found jobs. Bit by bit the family got itself together, but the circle had a painful gap in it. Snoopy was missing. Everyday Nancy telephoned a different moving company, a different trucking company, begging for a ride for Snoopy. Every day Jodi and Matthew came through the door asking if she’d had any luck, and she had to say no.
The Travelers’ Aid representative arrived to take the belongings they couldn’t pack for donation to the local thrift shop. A nice man, he was caught between being sympathetic and being practical when he looked at Snoopy. “Seventeen is really old for a dog,” he said gently. “Maybe you just have to figure she’s had a long life and a good one.” When nobody spoke, he took a deep breath. “If you want, you can leave her with me and I’ll have her put to sleep after you’ve gone.”
By March, they’d been back in Fort Wayne six weeks and Nancy was in despair. She dreaded bearing from Wyoming that Snoopy had died out there, never knowing how hard they’d tried to get her back. One day, having tried everything else, she telephoned the Fort Wayne Department of Animal Control and told them the story.
“I don’t know what I can do to help,”the director, a man named Rod, said when she’d finished. “But I’ll tell you this: I’m sure going to try.”
“She knows,” Jodi said, cradling her. “She knows something awful is going to happen.”
A week later, he too had exhausted the obvious approaches. Snoopy was too frail to be shipped in the unheated baggage compartment of a plane. A professional animal transporting company wanted $665 to bring her east. Shipping companies refused to be responsible for her. Rod hung up from his latest call and shook his head. “I wish the old-time Pony Express was still in existence,” he remarked to his assistant, Skip. “They’d have brought the dog back.”
“They’d have passed her along from one driver to another. It would’ve been a Puppy Express,” Skip joked.
The children looked at Nancy but said nothing; they understood there wasn’t any choice and they didn’t want to make it harder on their mother by protesting. Nancy bowed her head. She thought of all the walks, all the romps, all the picnics, all the times she’d gone in to kiss the children goodnight and Snoopy had lifted her head to be kissed too.
Rod thought for a minute. “By golly, that maybe the answer.” He got out a map and a list of animal shelters in Wyoming, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois and Indiana, and began telephoning. Could he enlist enough volunteers to put together a Puppy Express to transport Snoopy by stages across five states? Would enough people believe it mattered so for a little seventeen-year-old dog to be reunited with her family that they’d drive a hundred or so miles west to pick her up and another hundred or so miles east to deliver her to the next driver?
A week later, Rod called the Topps. “The Puppy Express starts tomorrow. Snoopy’s coming home!” he told Nancy jubilantly.
The next day Joe went off to collect the wired funds while Nancy and the kids sorted through their possessions, trying to decide what could be crammed into the six pieces of baggage they were allowed on the bus and what had to be left behind. Ordinarily Snoopy would have napped, but now her eyes followed every move of Nancy and the children, and if one of them paused to think, even for a minute, Snoopy nosed at the idle hand, asking to be touched, to be held.
The animal control officer in Rock Springs had volunteered to be Snoopy’s first driver. When he pulled up outside the clinic, the vet bundled Snoopy in a sweater and carried her to the car. “She’s got a cold,” the vet said, “so keep her warm. Medicine and instructions and the special food for her kidney condition are in the shopping bag.”
She put the little dog on the seat and held out her hand. Snoopy placed her paw in it. “You’re welcome, old girl,” the vet said, shaking it. “It’s been a pleasure taking care of you. The best of luck. Get home safely!”
