When I was growing up in north Georgia back in the '50's, we had a dog named Buck. Buck was a proud, majestic blue tic that herded us children during the days and protected us in our sleep at night. He was so much a part of the family that it went without question that wherever we went on vacation, Buck was going, too.
One year, Pop decided we were going south to Florida on vacation. We wound up straight east, on the South Carolina coast. There may have been some alcohol involved in this.
On Pop's part, not Buck's.
To make a long story short, as we were distracted on our way home from that vacation, we somehow lost Buck. Someone had cut his leash while we were busy packing. We spent the rest of that day and most of another with authorities and locals and anyone we could who would help us find Buck. With futile efforts and sad faces, we drove the 400 miles back home without him.
It was a cold January day, as I was taking out the trash to the barns, that I saw first him again, bounding thru the pastures as fast as he could toward home. He was skin and bones and all matted hair but, after 6 months and 400 miles, Buck had finally made it back home. A Lassie moment, for sure.
He lived with us many years after that. We never let him out of our sight again until the day he was gone for good. Once, he carried me and now, 60 years later, I still carry him.
