There’s something about a sudden storm that lowers the atmosphere and picks up a dog. A story by AntiqueWeek Associate Editor Eric Rodenberg holds a good example.

Rodenberg writes that a little Chihuahua named Tinkerbell was minding her own business at a Waterford, Mich., flea market, when a storm arrived suddenly – with amazing results.

Tinkerbell was tied to a cooler, but the wind broke the leash and lofted her toward the nearby woodlands. After the little dog disappeared, her owners, Lavern and Dorothy Utley, shut down their booth and went looking for her.

Other exhibitors closed their booths, too, and joined in the search. Detroit radio stations got involved, and someone contacted a “pet psychic” to see what she could do. The psychic suggested the searchers keep “looking up.”

That’s always good advice when a dog has gone airborne.
Two days later Tinkerbell appeared in the nearby woods, where Laverne picked her up – without a scratch on her. How the little dog became airborne, and how she got back to earth, are anybody’s guess.

I know this sounds amazing, but the same thing happened many times with my old dog, Ben. I know how it feels. Besides the usual flaws one expects from a bird dog, Ben developed the habit of running away every time there was a storm.

He couldn’t stand thunder and the hint of a shower would send him into orbit. After he took off, our best hope was a phone call to tell us where he’d gone. I carved my name and telephone number into the old dog’s collar, and that worked fine most of the time.
One day a sheep rancher caught Ben in a coyote trap. Then, finding my name and phone number, the sheep man brought him home. Another time Ben went down to the golf course and walked a few holes with the boys. He couldn’t play much, and his manners weren’t very good.

The poor old dog was only a mile or so from home, but a local patrolman told the golf pro there wasn’t any animal control officer for the rural area. The best solution, he thought, was to take the dog into town and drop him off where the pest control people could find him.

This was a bad situation, but we finally got a call from some folks in town. So, I went in to pick up the dog.

Ben’s worst outing took place when my son and I were hunting pheasants near a creek. We jumped a few birds, and the dog took off like he had been shot out of a cannon.

That was Thanksgiving day, and when it got dark, we finally went home. Ben hadn’t gone far, but the sound of the creek may have drowned out our whistling and shouting.

We were hunting in the same area two days later – when suddenly, Ben reappeared! He sat under a tree near an old house, as if he was born there.

Readers with questions or comments for Roger Pond may write to him in care of this publication.