The Braunschweiger Method

In which I test how many times the word “braunschweiger” can appear in one essay.

Just as I was gathering my wits yesterday morning and contemplating a day of writing, Scary Lisa, my good friend, champion of dogs, beloved of Auggie and Eli, texted me a screenshot. “Isn’t this sad?”

It was a photo of a handsome German Shepherd in the woods, with this message.

No one recognized him.

“Where is this?” I asked. “Is he local?” We figured out that he was, more or less, and I said I would go.

I packed up a dog enticement kit, thick gardening gloves to protect, at least, my hands from bites, insect repellent (ticks!) water, a water bowl, a waterproof seatcover, a green ball, and Auggie, because I was hoping he would be interesting to the other dog, and maybe helpful in finding him. “Bring your braunschweiger,” wrote Lisa. This proved to be a key detail.

When we got to the area, about twenty minutes away, I began to realize we were looking for a needle in a haystack. It was a rural area with a subdivision and new construction going on. Wetlands with tall cattails; fields, walled farmland; woods; muddy piles of dirt and empty half-finished houses; and a bike trail making for easy cross-country movement. Auggie and I decided to walk the trail for a bit. He ran ahead, sniffing, but returning to me when called, and minding my directions to avoid the standing water in the gulleys along either side of the trail. I whistled and called randomly, which Auggie found a bit confusing, but I thought maybe if the stray heard something familiar it would trigger his curiosity. But it all seemed hopeless, not to mention cold, and beginning to rain. The dog could be anywhere, and if he was afraid to approach humans at that house, why would he approach us? All he needed to do was to stay quiet and we could walk right past him.

Spoiler alert: that turns out to be exactly what we had done.

Meanwhile, in the background, Lisa was doing her homework. Through private channels, she managed to find the phone number and address of the house where the dog had been sleeping, and to contact the owner. She sent the owner my phone number, and just as I was giving up, she called. “He’s here,” she said. And we were a minute away.

I left Auggie in the car, and after meeting the family, went outside to see what—if anything—I could do. He was a beautiful dog, with Auggie’s coloring, but a thick, longer coat. He looked quite young—maybe three at most—and remarkably clean. The family had left a blanket and a bowl of water out for him, and food. “He’s been eating raccoons,” they told me. “There’s a skull down there.” As I came outside, the dog ran deeper into the woods, and watched.

I sat down on the steps of the wooden deck, and did not look at the dog. I couldn’t see him, but I knew he could see me, and I wanted him to smell me. Then I did what all contemporary humans do in idle time: I took out my phone, paid a few bills. When I looked up I still couldn’t see the dog, but the people in the house texted me. “He’s back.” I continued to look away, and began to sing soft, non-operatic singing of the kind my own dogs like (although they do love it when I sing opera). I sang several things, but focused on one tune that he could associate with me.

I moved further down the deck, closer to the woods. I could see him now, but I continued singing and looking away. He came a little closer, just below the brow of the hill, where I could no longer see him. He seemed interested in the singing. The rain was just an intermittent sprinkle.

I decided to get Auggie. He came enthusiastically, barking at everyone and making a fuss. We went back to my place on the deck and sat down. I gave Auggie treats, and talked to him. He lay down beside me and I sang the song again. I tossed him the green ball. I got out the braunschweiger. Auggie, who does not prioritize food, was too keyed up to eat it, but the other dog must have smelled it. We sat together for ten minutes or so, Auggie finally calmed down enough to eat the braunschweiger, and then I took him back to the car.

I think Auggie—and maybe the smell of the braunschweiger—broke the impasse.

The dog was back in his closest position, watching me. I spoke to him, and tossed the green ball. He moved further away again.

I walked into the woods. He ran. But I stayed there. I sang. I looked away. I sat down on his rock. The neighbors in the adjacent house looked out their patio doors, and I wondered what they thought, but they left me alone. I doubt I look dangerous. I walked back up the hill, and kept singing. I got out the braunschweiger and walked back down, putting a chunk of it on his rock. Then I walked up to the deck again and stopped looking at him.

Slowly he lifted his head, sniffing. He began to move cautiously toward the rock with the braunschweiger, and gradually found it. After he ate it, I stood up, and he ran again, but he watched me as I put another piece of braunschweiger on the rock and retreated to the deck. I sang the song while he ate. I tossed another chunk of braunschweiger, and he came immediately to look for it. Soon he was circling around to approach me from a different angle, deeply interested in the braunschweiger. I was sitting on the ground—a stupid thing to do, really, putting my face level with the dog’s—but I didn’t want to tower over him. I averted my face and moved very slowly. He approached me and growled, and I immediately realized how precarious my position was. I was holding the braunschweiger wrapper, which he wanted. So, I tossed the wrapper away, and he grabbed it. Unfortunately, after he had licked all the braunschweiger he also swallowed the wrapper. (I checked with my vet’s office afterward, and they were unconcerned.)

He was staying nearby now, clearly hungry. I reached cautiously into my bag, singing softly, and switched to freeze-dried liver treats. He liked these, too, and I fed him increasingly generous servings of them before I began to think I shouldn’t fill him up too much all at once.

It had now been nearly three hours. I was cold, wet, and hungry. But I had made progress. He looked fairly healthy, but he could have contracted all kinds of parasites, or even rabies from the raccoon(s), and there was something not quite right about the way he used his back legs, but the people whose yard he was in were willing to feed him, and keep an eye on him. So I wandered off home, pondering how to find someone who could rehab a feral dog who might have hip dysplasia, and arranging to return again today.

But last night, the husband in the family sat outside with the dog, whom they call “Gus” and spoke with him, and soon the dog came right to the door to be fed. This morning I got an excited text. “My husband is petting him!” Then, “My husband is lying down with him!” Then a photo of Gus in the house. Then a photo of him lying down with the husband, who had a besotted smile on his face.

She texted me that her vet was making a house call to check on him, that Gus was getting along with their small fourteen year old dog, Alice, then added this: “We’ve had dogs all our lives. I never had two at one time.”

I’ll keep you all posted, but unless the vet finds a microchip, I’m pretty sure Gus is home.

The moral to the story is clear: Always bring your Braunschweiger.

And now for your pertinent dog photos:

The top three photos are from my interactions with Gus yesterday. In the top right you can see him eating the braunschweiger wrapper. Luckily, harmless.

The bottom three photos are what I hope may be a happy ending.

***

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JFR