Losing Rooney
By Kevin Ryan
It was two days before we would head home to Massachusetts after a relaxing holiday with family in North Carolina. Warm temperatures thickened the damp air and rain was expected later that evening, so my girlfriend Briahn and I decided to go for a short hike before settling in with one of her mom’s home-cooked dinners.
Along with Rooney, our three-year-old Red Heeler, we loaded up and drove out to Falls Lake State Recreation area. The forecast must have been a deterrent to others because the trailhead parking lot was empty. We opted for a quick two-mile loop and figured we’d be back at the house eating dinner before the rain started. As we hiked, Rooney stayed close, walking in step with us, occasionally stopping to sniff around, taking it all in. We arrived at a clearing and stopped to rest. Rooney had picked up on the scent of something but didn’t stray far, even as he feverishly paced around us with his nose to the ground.
By the time I hit the clearing, I have the scent. It’s a delightful musk, steaming up from damp fur. I can feel the smell tingling on my tongue. I don’t know if I can detect the smell of adrenaline but the air is charged with anticipation.
Bordered by an embankment, a few birch trees stood up in the center of the clearing, giving way to spindly pines crowding the perimeter. It was bright even though the sky had darkened with the incoming weather. All was quiet, save for the light piddle of mist that had begun tapping at my hood. There was a sense of ease. My breath reached deeper, expanding my chest, before releasing a slow exhale filled with the weight of discontent.
I am so close the energy of movement is tangible. There it is, 20 yards behind me. The slow squish of damp soil squeezing beneath a carefully weighted hoof.
I turn and see an unnatural outline moving before losing it against the browned grass and fallen leaves of the winter forest. I freeze, scanning for movement.
A twig snaps. I lock onto the outlines of the beasts bursting from their camouflage, tails flashing white as they stot up the embankment.
I heard a loud rustling come from behind us before turning to see a pair of deer hustling away. Rooney became a reddish-blonde streak across my periphery and was up and over the embankment before I could yell, “Stop!!!”
Then Briahn and I both yelled together, “Rooney, stop!!!
I take off to a cacophony of yelling, my people cheering me on. Their cheers dissipate and my focus tunnels, easing me into a meditative stride. This is what I’m built for. Instinct automates my body in a series of perfectly timed leaps, ducks, darts, and sprints as I rollick in the rush of wind massaging my face. This is what I’m built for.
We scrambled up the steep incline hoping to find him proudly trotting back, but the top of the rise just revealed another hill, thick with trees and vegetation, offering no clear path for us to follow. We retreated to the clearing to wait. When, after 30 minutes, Rooney still hadn’t returned, we walked back to the trailhead to review the park map.
Falls Lake covers over 5000 acres of forest and lake and has an extensive trail system. The section we were in was a low draw that terminated at the lake. From the map, we noticed there was a series of linking trails and service roads that created a semi-circle around the draw. Briahn and I decided to hike in opposite directions, hoping to intercept Rooney following one of the trails back to us. It felt like a long shot but dusk was closing in.
After about 15 minutes, Briahn called. “Anything?” she asked
“Nothing.”
“Okay, I’m going to call my parents to come and help us search.”
Before she hung up, she told me she saw a sheriff sitting in his car on one of the service roads and explained to him that we were looking for our dog. He told her when his hunting dogs run off, he drops a shirt or coat in the last place he saw them. He said it never failed. They were always waiting the next morning when he comes back.
It’s been a good run but I am no match for the speed, grace, and evasiveness of these deer. Looking forward to a joyous reception filled with nuzzling and jerky, I begin to navigate my way back.
Another 15 minutes passed, and Brian called again. I was sure this time she was going to tell me she had found Rooney. She said that when she got back to the parking lot to meet her parents she ran into a park ranger. When she told him we were looking for our dog he said that the park was closing and that we had to leave.
“He told me we could come back in the morning,” she said.
“Fuck that,” I replied. “I’m not leaving until we find him.”
“Babe, just come back here,” she pleaded. “Talk to them with me. Maybe they’ll let us search a little longer.”
Dusk collapses into night. The forest floor fills with inky murkiness as the sky spits an invisible mist, cooling my panting. I sniff my way over the rolling terrain, the soft conifer needles brushing my nose. Along my back runs the wind, spiraling through groves of ghostly, naked birch glowing white under the diffused moonlight.
When I arrived back at the parking lot, it was dark. A ranger’s truck sat running, its tail lights casting an eerie red glow in the exhaust steaming from the tailpipe. Briahn, her parents, and the ranger were huddled around the hood of the truck. Briahn’s dad Jeff intercepted me before the ranger saw me coming.
He half-whispered, “He’s going to make us leave. But I have snacks, a couple maps, and flashlights. We can park out on the road and hike in to keep looking.” He peeled off before the ranger came over.
The ranger approached, shrouded in a dark, shapeless rain poncho. I could make out the shape of the North Carolina State Parks logo on the front of his ball cap.
“Mr. Ryan,” he said, in a tone that signaled he was about to give me a command.
I confirmed with a slight nod.
“I just want to let you know that the park is now closed. While we were waiting for you, your wife and in-laws provided a description of your dog, so we’re all set here. We’ll need you to exit the park.”
He spoke in a firm tone as though he needed to discourage any questions I may have had regarding his authority. I was full of emotion and thinking irrationally. Mostly, I was scared and couldn’t bring myself to understand how he could put a seemingly arbitrary park rule before Rooney’s welfare.
I felt like time would be wasted explaining that I did not intend to leave the park. I said nothing but fished the car keys out of my pocket and held them up quickly for the ranger to see before turning to the car. I opened the driver-side door, grabbed my sweatshirt, flipped my phone flashlight on and started down the trail toward the clearing.
The ranger called after me but I kept walking, refusing to respond.
During my time as a teacher at an alternative high school, I learned a lot from my students. They shared brilliant insights and innovative approaches to learning in the classroom. But when things went sideways, they’d exhibit behaviors that were immature and antisocial. One such behavior was to ignore requests and walk away when someone asked them to do something they didn’t want to do. As a teacher, it drove me nuts, but it was effective. Unless they were a danger to themselves or someone else, we just let them go.
“Mr. Ryan!” the ranger called. “You need to stop.”
I didn’t.
“Stop, or I am going to call the Sheriff,” the ranger threatened.
At this point, it seemed inevitable that I would be forced to leave the park without Rooney. I was determined to get my sweatshirt to the clearing so I continued on. I figured I could use the excuse that I was following the sheriff's advice to leave something familiar in the last place we saw Rooney.
When I made the clearing, I called out, “Rooney, come on buddy! Let's go home.”
I stood listening for a moment and dropped the sweatshirt onto a soft bed of pine needles beneath some low-hanging branches that I figured would offer Rooney some shelter from the rain. I crouched down and stuffed a handful of jerky treats into the pocket of the sweatshirt.
I stayed there for a moment and pushed a heavy sigh past the knot in my throat, feeling the emotions of the last few hours rush over me. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glint from the ranger’s flashlight back down the trail. I didn’t realize that he had followed me. I stood and quickly collected myself and without a word, we walked back.
At the parking lot, Briahn hugged me and joked that I had “caused quite a scene.” I apologized to the rangers before we got in the car and drove out of the park. A few hundred feet beyond the entrance, we stopped at a pull-out. With his bag of snacks and lights, Jeff hopped in the car with us while Briahn’s mom, Kim, drove home.
We wanted to make sure the rangers had left before hiking back into the park, so we slowly drove the highway for a couple of miles in both directions in case Rooney had made his way to the road. We found a gated driveway that appeared to be one of the park’s service roads. Under the car’s interior light, we inspected the park map determining where we were in relation to the clearing. For the next two hours we hiked the service roads and the branch trails but never found the clearing.
Hungry, tired, and wet, we decided to postpone the search and head home to regroup. I planned to go back after dinner to set up camp at the clearing but Briahn, without discouraging me, noted that me getting arrested would just complicate our search for Rooney.
But I couldn’t shake the guilt I felt sitting there dry, fed, and doing nothing.
I had failed Rooney by leaving him, and while I was terrified that he’d resent me the rest of his life, I could live with it as long as he was safe. I rationalized that the only way to relieve this feeling was to be out there searching, or at least waiting under a tree shivering, wet, and alone to match the misery I assumed he was feeling.
After a sleepless night, Briahn and I were up as the first signs of daylight pushed up into the dull, sputtering clouds. Kim was awake, fixing coffee and putting lunches together and Jeff was poring over area maps at the dining room table.
Seeing how everyone was rallying to find Rooney helped ease some of my guilt, but we skipped our normal morning pleasantries and jumped into planning the day’s search. Jeff and I would hike from the parking lot together and split at the clearing while Briahn and Kim drove the perimeter of the park, stopping at the few houses in the area.
When Jeff and I pulled into the parking lot, we saw a ranger's truck parked next to the trailhead leading to the clearing. I was immediately encouraged and somewhat ashamed by my reactive behavior from the night before. We put on our packs and started hiking the mile to the clearing. No more than a hundred yards up the trail, I heard barking.
“That’s Rooney!” I said to Jeff before breaking into a sprint, backpack swinging awkwardly on my shoulders.
I stopped to catch my breath and listen for him; maybe some rustling in the brush or the clinking of his collar tags. “Roooooooney,” I called out and began to walk. “Rooney!” In between my calls, I could hear Jeff behind me singing his own “Rooooney” calls.
As I hustled up the trail I recognized that around the next bend was the clearing. Just before I reached it Rooney came running, tugging like a Clydesdale, with the smiling ranger in tow. He was vibrating and nearly jumped up into my arms before I could bend over to embrace his soaked little body.
There was no evidence of misery and no resentment, only the purest joy.
Kevin Ryan is a writer and photographer based in Denver, Colorado. When not writing, he enjoys fishing, writing songs no one will ever hear, and traveling mostly near, but sometimes far. Explore more of Kevin’s work on his website.
