He was in the care of a foster family associated with a small-dog rescue group, living in the downtown area. That's where she went, to pick up the-then-year-old. She had a thing about looking directly at a dog, to evaluate how it would respond, convincing herself that she could see into the soul of the animal and in this way predict its character. She had predicted that he would get on well with her chihuahua and toy Pomerian and her small border collie and larger Australian shepherd. And he did.

He particularly took to the border collie, a young dog whose personality was similar to its own. He was himself a Pomeranian, a white fluffball of insecurity whom someone had decided was not in each of their best interests to nurture. He might have done well with a family of one or two children, the only dog in the house on whom affection could be heaped. As it was he had to make do with the attention and nurturing he had to share among the other dogs.

He had been named by that same unknown source that had surrendered him to the rescue group, an unimaginative "Whitey" in reflection of his extravagant white haircoat. The first thing she did when she brought him home was to rename him Zoey. He didn't seem to mind, and responded happily to his new name.

Zoey found his new accommodations to his liking. They were all house dogs, and that's where they spent most of their time, although they lived in the country where it's common enough to see dogs roaming about freely on their owners' property. They had ample room to roam, but did it only when they were taken out three times daily for trail walks on the seven-acre property. Otherwise, they could be out unsupervised within a large outdoor enclosure in fine weather, or troll about close to the house when someone was outside to keep an eye on them.

Over the years other dogs were introduced to the pack, rescues that sometimes came from as far away as Nunavut; German shepherds, Malamute blends who needed homes, until the pack had grown to ten. The years passed, and there was a move to yet another rural property, this one an old farm with a heritage stone farmhouse standing on seventy acres of land and the prospect for wider-ranging trails stood before them.

There was a fence that ran along the front of the property where the house stood, stopping however, where the fields began either side of the house. The trails were behind and beyond, and that's where the pack went on their daily hikes, more loosely supervised now, permitted to range out of view at times, responding when they were called to return.

But two days ago Zoey didn't respond. And he didn't rejoin the pack. And though hours were spent on the trails calling him, there was no answer.