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There’s another amazing story of a dog surviving in the outdoors. And the canine in question wants to share his tale. Woof!
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Oh hey! WOOF! Its me, Rippy the wonder dog, the amazing canine of North Canaan, Connecticut.
You must be thrilled to meet a VIP—that’s “very important pup”—like me! I’m sure you read about my amazing, thrilling, oh-so extraordinary story of survival, because it was published far and wide. Wait, you haven’t? Don’t you check out the New York Post? Ah—no need to use such foul language around a terrier. Say, do you have any treats? WOOF!
Hey, I get it—there are a ton of stories of doggies surviving in the wild amid amazing circumstances, and it’s so hard to keep track of them all. Do y’all remember Nanuq, the Australian Shepherd in Alaska who walked 150 miles over sea ice, survived a seal bite, and somehow got back home? Last I checked there’s no Purina distributor in the Bering Sea. What about Izzy the Bernese Mountain Dog who survived a California wildfire and tracked down its owner? How a hairball that big avoided being cooked is beyond me.
Heck, Colorado has produced two of these thrilling tales in the last year. You probably know about Finney the Pagosa Springs pup who lasted ten weeks in the wild after his owner died on a hike. I can’t believe he lived that long by eating chipmunks and bugs—no treats! Then there’s Ullr, the miracle dog who survived an avalanche in 2023 and apparently is still living somewhere in the hills outside of Marble.
Well let me tell you why my experience tops both of these. I was on a walk with my owner when I fell off of a 50-foot cliff and landed in a rock quarry. Then, when my owner couldn’t find me, I spent the next three days living in the wild, surviving off of god knows what—probably rainwater and bugs.
Things got pretty bleak during those three days. I barked incessantly. My poor owner and other rescuers looked but could not find me—despite my constant woofing. On my second day stranded, my yelps caught the attention of a hiker who left a message with the local animal shelter. An officer with animal control came to the quarry and even alerted the owner. They even brought in a guy who flew a drone over the quarry! And from what I’ve been told, the drone carried an instrument that detects heat signatures. Apparently, this doohickey couldn’t pick up barking, because it just flew around and around without doing much good. I hope Radio Shack gives the guy a refund.
Did I give up? No way. You see, I’m a terrier, cut from the same breeding cloth as Benji or Bothie the polar dog. We terriers are bred to do two things: eat anything that moves, and get our bellies scratched for hours at a time. After three days of hunting bugs in that quarry, I was ready for a belly rub. And treats!
So I kept barking and barking. And eventually, the employees at the quarry were so annoyed by all of the racket that they arranged a rescue mission with the North Canaan Fire Company. Two guys rappelled down the cliff to my location. Boy was I glad to see them. And boy was I grumpy when I realized they didn’t have any treats.
Now here I am, back safely at home fielding requests for interviews and photo opportunities. My scrapes and bruises are healing. Word has it that Netflix is going to produce a ten-part documentary on my rescue. And they should! Because my story is absolutely deserving of everyone’s attention.
And of everyone’s treats!
—As fictitiously told to Frederick Dreier
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