Researching my Frieda book, I was able – thanks in part to the reach of the blog – to piece the story of Frieda’s life together. I knew who the breeder was, where he was, where she was dumped off the highway in the Adirondacks, generally where she lived and hunted for foraged for several years. I know where the auto body shop/junkyard was where she was used as a guard dog, I
know the family she saved from a fire, the college where she scavenged for nearly a year and enjoyed the generosity and compassion of some of the students. All of these stories are in the book.

Once I found out where she had been left, I took Frieda back to the Adirondacks. People wince when they hear of her abandonment, but I don’t think Frieda hated it so much or suffered so much. Walking in the woods with her, she was transformed, much as Red is when he enters a pasture, her ears went up, she began putting her nose to holes in the ground that I couldn’t see, she listened for sounds I couldn’t hear, the footsteps, perhaps of rabbits or wild turkeys. I think she lived the life of a dog out there, she was in her element. But she also got sore out there, got arthritis, came to savor warmth and a soft carpet to lie on.

Perhaps she is looking for her pups. She was pregnant when she was left at the side of the road.