Farm Report: Wild dog in the hills

We’d see her lurking in the woods, hanging behind the rhododendrons and mountain laurel that dot the hillsides of Belcher Mountain up in the Blue Ridge.
Her flanks were thin, hip bones and ribs standing in relief of her short coat.
Her neck was a mess, a big raw weeping wound on one side, badly swollen on the other. Blood matted her chest.
When we made a move in her direction, she’d fade further into the woods, but something made her keep hanging around.
Our neighbor down the road, Eugene Tinker of Charlotte, first spotted her earlier this summer with another dog. Foxhounds, he thought. He put out food for the pair whenever he was up in the hills.
The county dogcatcher came by and put out traps; the mate was captured and taken away weeks ago.
But this one was too skittish to catch. She avoided the cage with the trap door the dogcatcher put under a tree. She wouldn’t go near the food left inside as bait.
But she would reappear out of the shadows when we walked away. And she’d warily approach the bowls of chow and water we’d leave for her in the woods.
She’d creep up on the pan, hunched down and tensed, ready to run as if she were suspecting a trap. She’d grab a morsel, then run away to eat it, then creep back for another bite.
It was a sad sight. We wondered if she’d been abused, and if she’d ever trust a human.
We’re still not sure. But after several weekends of leaving food for her and speaking to her in calm voice, she has begun to tolerate our presence. She’ll walk with us down to the fields, trailing just a step or so as long as we aren’t looking at her.
I’ve learned to carry some dog biscuits. She won’t take if from my hand if I’m looking her way, but as we walk down the hill she’ll bump the hand with the biscuit and I’ll drop it right there for her to pounce on.
She’s put on a little weight. Her wound is healing and looks clean now. She seems to watch for us and tag along, keeping her distance but clearly interested in our company.
I hopped on the tractor the other day to head down the road to mow some of the late-summer hay. She raced along on a parallel track maybe 10 yards into the woods, laying her ears back and jumping deadfalls like a greyhound and just streaking along with a exuberant joy that made me wish I felt that good.
It was an inspiring sight. This broken dog, afraid and suspicious and distrustful, had found her stride. She bounded through the woods as though it was her favorite thing in all the world, as if these woods were hers.
I don’t think she’ll ever be a pet, certainly not an inside dog. But in time and if the bears and coyotes don’t get her, I think she might be a regular friend for us.
We’ll watch for her as often as we can and make sure she’s got something to eat, but we don’t want to capture her, don’t want to put her on a leash or cart her off in a cage.
She’s a free dog, and we hope to help her stay that way.