Last month, our family dog went missing.
Liza is a beautiful black Scottish terrier that isn’t just a pet but part of the family.
She was a birthday gift to my brother six years ago. How would I tell him I didn’t close the front gate properly? Why did I scold her for lying on my bed? Why didn’t I take her for more walks?
My search began. I drove through Glen Marais screaming “Liza! Liza!” at the top of my lungs, without luck.
I walked through a nearby park in the hope that I’d spot her excited face. I didn’t.
A little girl came running up to me.
“Have you seen a black Scotty?” she asked, out of breath. Confused, I realised she was looking for my dog. Word that Liza was missing had spread.
Two little boys fishing heard the news and dropped their fishing rods, “let’s split up!” they shouted and joined the search.
Being a journalist has its perks, and Express was kind enough to post a picture of Liza on Facebook. Within an hour it was shared 44 times; the community had my back.
“I’ll share it on my groups,” a kind security member told me, and the SPCA agreed they’d also keep an eye out.
But, it seemed, Liza was gone.
As a last resort, my mother had posters made at a local print shop. They wouldn’t let her pay.
“We hope you find your dog,” they said.
Finally, just as the working-day was about to end, I got the call: “We found her.”
As neighbour Tannie Hettie exited her garage, Liza snuck in, where she spent the entire day until Tannie Hettie returned.
Whether Liza was looking for Oom John, who used to feed her treats in the garage but recently died, or if she was just being naughty, I don’t know.
But I do know that I found hope and kindness in the community of Kempton Park that day and that I’ll never leave the front gate open again.
