The Little Leo Rescue Project: A Template For Anyone's Rescue Project

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It started with a simple walk, my son and I in the cold dusk, bundled up tight as we’ve been lately, when the lady’s car rolled around the corner. She had the driver’s side window open — in the cold. Something was urgent.

“Any chance you’ve seen a small gray dog on the loose?”

Her voice was jagged, words fast with barely the time to throw them at us.

“He escaped again and I can’t find him anywhere!”

I looked at my son. He works remotely as a software engineer — meetings and work abound. I never know if he has expendable time.

“Can we help her look for him? Do you have any meetings left today?”

He shook his head.

“You sure?”

He nodded. I turned back to the distraught lady. “We’ll help you look for him. We saw a bunch of deer hanging out back there,” I pointed, “But suddenly they darted away. Maybe your dog was there.” She turned the car around and we headed back the way we’d come.

“At least we’ll get more steps in,” I said to my son. He grinned. We’re Garmin watch fanatics.

Thus began the Little Leo Rescue Project. Leo is a Pomeranian puppy with a lightning-fast reaction to the world. He’s the most darling, terrified, over-stimulated pain in the butt I’ve ever tried to rescue.

Poor little guy.

The rescue team grew to include me, my son, the lady, and the owner of the house whose backyard abutted the big forest where Leo was darting about, tail waving, voice yelping. The four of us worked as a helpless team, trying everything to lure Leo close enough to grab. He was having none of it.

At first, my mind was laser-focused on how to corral him close enough to lay a hand on his collar. This was interesting. I laid on the snow to be an oddity to explore. I was channeling my approach to the world. Cool things draw me in. Maybe it’d be the same for a tiny pooch weaving around half-frozen in the snow.

But Leo was too over-stimulated to get curious about a weird horizontal human on the ground. So, I got up, squatted low, and spoke in a calm voice to entice him near with promises of love and cuddles.

I had no idea what I was doing. I was just doing. But I wasn’t “just doing”. I was reaching into my history for what I knew. When a creature is freaked out, the more the environment is freaky, the greater the freak-out. Or, at least, the longer the duration.

Why on earth would we ever calm down when bombs are flying — except to give up? Leo wasn’t giving up.

It was soon obvious this little dog would need to calm down before he’d stay in one spot for longer than a single second. But his owner didn’t see this yet, and understandably so. She was freaked out, too, and now probably felt she was imposing on random strangers on whom it was dawning this was a bigger project than they’d figured.

Every time the little fluff came close to — but then bounced back from — the doggie snacks his owner flashed low to the ground, she’d scold him quick and harsh. This is a common tactic for people in fear. Strong negative reinforcement is used to lasso a situation that is deemed out of control. We do it with others as readily as with ourselves.

It’ll work, though it crushes the more effective positive reinforcement lasso. In the case of a new puppy that hasn’t been trained yet — and is freezing, utterly confused, and terrified — well, ole Leo was a stellar example of what happens.

He’d yelp and dart away. We’d be back to square one.

This went on for thirty minutes, back and forth, Leo so close then Leo far, my son and I laying in the snow, squatting, ushering Leo into an enclosed basketball court, sprinkling snacks, and one of us repeatedly yelling, “No, Leo! NO!!”

Eventually, my job was to stand sentry at the basketball court’s gated entrance, which didn’t close fully due to snow, so I had time to watch and think.

I noticed myself in Leo. We were two peas in a pod of fear and reaction. If I can’t decipher what’s in front of me, my first impulse is to do a mini-freak-out inside, followed by a warrior mentality — trudge and fight! The fight is with my calmer self, and the trudge is through the present moment with a bullwhip at my side. Go, Steph! GO!

It’s not fun.

But as soon as I notice myself squatting on the ground — a safe being who’s on my side — I relax and begin to get curious about how I’m going to decipher this not-knowing. Almost always there’s a cool thing to learn, something to get excited about, a fun problem to solve, or curious observations to make.

I’m taking yet another course taught by Rick Hanson, PhD, on positive neuroplasticity, which encompasses changing the brain for the better rather than the worse. Our first lesson is practicing self-compassion which we can engage in moments of struggle. Once we pivot toward recognizing our struggle, we can say to ourselves, “Hey, I’m here for you.” It’s a way to show our inner Leos there is safety with at least one person — who is the most important person of all. It’s our finest rescue.

I was off in my reverie when Leo was caught by the collar. He was swept into his owner’s arms and carried back to the car — its driver’s side door still wide open. We all said goodbye to each other now that we were firm neighborhood friends forever. (Thanks, Little Leo.) The lady asked my son and I if she could drive us home.

“Oh, thank you so much, but we’ll walk,” I told her.

“Are you sure? It’s so far.” She was concerned and confused. She had no idea Garmin watch fanatics will do anything to walk the distance instead of sit through it. Also, it was hardly that far.

Such is the life of neighborhood walkers, dog rescuers, and creatures trying to help other creatures soften into trust.

We’ll see if Leo escapes again — that innocent fluffball pipsqueak.

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Hope you're warm and well, friends.