Chapter 2 – The Beginning (A True Story)

The First Lessons

Standing there alone on the track, I started to sob. Then, it was like a light switch flipped in my brain. In that instant, I just knew I needed to think. I had to muster up every ounce of strength and think harder than I ever had in my life.

I needed help.

I wiped my face, clearing away all the tears and, frankly, a fair amount of snot. I took a deep breath and said out loud, "THINK, THINK, THINK."

Facebook. Yes, that's it, I thought. But how? I knew sod all about Facebook. The only person who could help me was my daughter, Kerry, back in the UK. So I grabbed my phone and, in a fast and furious mode, punched in my passcode — because to this day, my thumb still won't open the bloody thing.

I tapped into WhatsApp, and there she was, right at the top. I called immediately. It started ringing. In my head, after just one ring, I was yelling, "Answer! Bloody answer the phone!" On the third ring, she picked up.

"Hello, Mum."

Thankfully, daughters are the one person you can be rude to in moments of panic.

"Kerry, help. Help me. George is missing. Someone opened the gates and he’s gone. Quickly, put it on Facebook!"

In my mind, I really thought that by simply saying those words, I could hang up and get back to searching. But that just wasn’t the case.

"Mum, what pages? Mum, I'm not in any Spanish Facebook groups. Mum, I need a photo."

That was the first lesson I learned: no one can help unless you give them the right information. I realised I had to be the leader — to give clear instructions, to stay calm, to think cool thoughts. I had to not say what I felt, not raise my voice, not be blunt, and definitely not swear at anyone.

Still in a state, but knowing I had to act, I sent her a couple of photos of George and calmly said, "Just make a poster and put it on my Facebook page. Please, as fast as you can, darling."

Then I remembered to lock the bottom gates. Doing that made me feel physically sick. I didn’t have time to wonder how or who had opened them. All that mattered was finding George.

Back on the track, surrounded by campo — Spanish for countryside — I felt frustrated. My house sits in the middle of a mass of wild land, and I had no clue which way to turn. Searching for George felt like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Facebook alone wasn’t enough. I needed more help. I headed up the track — the way George knew best — and messaged my friend Gordon. He had Kermit staying with him and only lived up the road. I’ve known Gordon for years and met Kermit through him. Both are such kind, genuine fellas, and I knew they'd drop everything to help me.

All it took was one message: "HELP! George is missing."

Within a minute, my phone bleeped.

"On the way."

I ran back to the house to meet them, knowing full well George wasn’t inside. But of course, I had to comply with the usual, "Are you sure he’s not hiding in the house or garden?" I couldn’t help rolling my eyes, but I tossed my keys to Kermit and said, "Yes, please check. Look everywhere."

That was my second lesson: never care if your house is a mess in a crisis.

It was a lazy Sunday. I hadn’t even washed up from the day before. Honestly, I hadn’t cleaned all week because my best friend Sue was flying in from the UK on Thursday. What’s the point in cleaning when your plan is to blitz the house the day before your friend arrives?

So while poor Kermit scoured my messy home — probably checking under the bed, in the wardrobe, and yes, even the bathroom (gulp) — I was out searching again. By this point, I felt numb. I had no actual emotions left, just the instinct to keep moving.

Then Carol messaged on Messenger: "Shit, just seen your post. Be there in 5."

I went back to meet her at the gate. That was my third lesson: learning how to say hello to someone without crying like a banshee. But I managed to give instructions of where to search, and I even remembered to say thank you. OK, maybe it was a mumbled sob, but people understood.

More people meant more questions and more distractions. My phone kept beeping, but I ignored it and began searching like a wild animal — barging into gardens, even people’s houses, yelling "George!" I was under their sofas, under their beds. All my morals vanished. I didn't care. All I cared about was finding my baby, who was out there — scared, hungry, thirsty.

Kev to the Rescue

George had gone missing once before, six years ago. That time, it was only for ten minutes, but I still broke into a panic. It was Kev who found him. Kev came into my life a few months after I moved to Spain. I found him on the track, just 10 metres from my gate.

I was in a rental at the time — a cute two-bedroom house that my friend Claudia had helped me find. That’s how I met Claudia, through her work in property rentals. We’ve been best friends ever since.

There he was, the smallest dog I’d ever seen — smaller than a kitten. At first glance, he looked like a hamster. He wasn’t moving. His fur was matted and full of ticks. As I got closer, I saw a gash under his chin, covered in dried blood. His eyes were shut tight.

I had only been in Spain for less than a year and barely spoke any Spanish. My Spanish was at the "Hola" level. I had to man up.

Luckily, I was registered with Alfa Animal, a local vet in Coín. I passed Kev to them and turned away as they began treating him. When they sprayed him, an army of ticks ran towards his closed eyes. It looked like an ant mound after you kick the top. I felt faint.

The vet gave me a syringe and a white liquid to squirt into Kev’s mouth three times a day. "He 100% has worms," they said — and didn’t charge me a penny. I must admit, I didn’t seem that grateful at the time. I was too faint. How I wasn’t sick on the drive home, I’ll never know.

I couldn’t bathe him for two days, so I zipped him up in a soft carrier — a kind of doggy sleeping bag. I had to think of my other dogs, George and Steve. Two days later, it was bath time — six times! A bit of trimming, and Kev looked brand new. He really did resemble a hamster. Same blonde-gingery fur.

The vet was right — Kev had worms. When he pooped, it looked like clean spaghetti. No joke. Like spaghetti and with a bit of Dolmio on the top, I could have served it up for dinner. I’ve never seen anything like it.

From then on, I went from two dogs to three. And not long after, Kev proved how clever he was by finding George.

Rubber Rings & German Angels

It was a sunny day. I was outside my rental, in my vest and pants (as usual). Kev jumped over a fence my brother and I had put up — that area was dangerous, full of prickly brambles and a toxic plant.

He barked at me. I climbed over, grabbed him, climbed back. He did it again. More barking.

"What are you barking at?" I said, annoyed. Then I saw it — two eyes poking through the brambles. George’s eyes.

It took skill and patience to cut him free. George, the smartest yet dumbest dog I knew, had managed to get stuck in the most ridiculous way.

Ever since, Kev has amazed me. For such a small little dog, his smelling ability is outstanding. In fact, I am sure if he was to run along with all the suitcases on an airport conveyor belt, whatever he was told to sniff out, he could — especially if it was a rubber ring. You see, Kev’s favourite toy is a rubber ring. He has, gosh, more than 20 of the bloody things. They are the size of a child’s bracelet and obviously made of rubber. Each morning, he chooses a ring and then rubs his whole body over this particular ring.

Then it begins... Kev goes into let’s-play mode, and it takes a lot of cool thoughts to continue to throw the bloody thing all day. If your aim isn’t that good — which most of my friends’ isn’t — then on many occasions, his ring ends up in the swimming pool. "Grab another ring," one might say, yet oh no, nope, you have no hope, as Kev will sit on the pool ledge and bark and bark and bark until you grab the net and fish the bloody ring out of the water.

So, why was I running around in fields? Why was I looking in people’s houses for George? Why didn’t I just go and get Kev? Why? It was because I just wasn’t thinking enough. It was because I was still in panic mode.

The Man on the Track

My next move was to begin knocking on people’s doors, yet because I was living in the campo, there really weren’t that many doors to knock on. In the distance, down a small remote track, I could see a house. It was such a pretty little house — rather like a house you might see in a Disney film or possibly in a storybook. I’m not sure if I knocked on the door; it was more like a thud, and thankfully, a man answered after the second thud.

Without thinking, I rambled on in English: "George — have you seen my little black dog, George?" At this point, I had even forgotten that I lived in Spain. The man was tall and looked very young — well, younger than me anyway. He replied in English, yet I could tell by his accent that he was, in fact, German. This was the next part of my journey: finding out that people — strangers to me — actually cared.

I could immediately see the concern in his eyes. He grabbed his pushbike and pointed to the area that he would begin searching. As he was about to pedal off, he asked me for my mobile number, and my face just dropped. He kept calm. He told me to phone his number, so now I had his number, and he had mine.

This was something else I realised I needed to learn — my phone contact list needed to be clear. I needed to know who everyone was. As I watched him pedal away down the track shouting, "George! George!" and having no clue what his name was, all I could do was add his name in my phone as German man on a bike. (If I’m honest, I never did get any better at that.)

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