The July heat in Tallahassee was relentless, like the sun was waging war. Around 7:30 p.m., my daughter Garrett was in the yard, battling weeds in her flower bed, sweat dripping. Nearby, her frail 15-year-old Havanese, Poochie—deaf, half-blind and barely 4 pounds—sniffed the grass. Moments later, Garrett noticed Poochie pawing at the front door and thought, “One of the kids will let her in.” An hour later and her pup’s scratching forgotten, she gave up on the weeds and went inside for a shower. At 9:00 p.m., when Garrett went to feed Poochie, she discovered she wasn’t snuggled in her bed or underfoot of anyone. She wasn’t anywhere inside the house. Panic set in. “Who let her in?” she demanded, her voice sharp as she glared at her husband and children. They all looked up in unison, their faces blank with confusion. Three pairs of wide-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights stares met hers, along with a half-hearted mumble from one of the kids: “We didn’t hear her.” 

And just like that, the fragile calm of the evening shattered. The family leaped into action. Garrett and her husband, Mike, grabbed flashlights and scoured the neighborhood, calling out for Poochie into the humid night. The kids split up, their voices breaking as they yelled. Then, a storm rolled in. A dog who had never been alone was now caught in rain and lightning. As hours passed with no sign of her, they turned to social media, posting pleas and contacting everyone—except me, just a mile away. They didn’t want to worry me. Or they weren’t ready to deal with a mother who would recount a tale of saving her own poodle, Puddles. Years earlier, I was told she would die after contracting parvo. Never one to accept a grim diagnosis, I was determined she would live. So, on a cold New Year’s Eve, she and I were airlifted from Tallahassee to Gainesville, where she was admitted to the intensive care unit at the University of Florida Small Animal Hospital. Four days later, she was discharged, as good as new. I became a believer in miracles, not just for her life but my own after my husband got that medical bill and let me live. I’m sure my girls were fearful of how I would manage the news of a disappearing Poochie.

The next morning, my phone rang. Garrett’s hoarse, panicked voice broke the news, “Mom, Poochie’s gone!” And just like that, I was swept into what we later called Poochie’s Saga—the good, the bad and the ugly.

On the Hunt

Garrett’s childhood friend, Courtney, and my younger daughter, Sara, swooped in like heroes. Through Facebook, Courtney found a retired FBI agent turned volunteer dog tracker—yes, an actual canine Sherlock Holmes. The instructed suggestions: Grill something smoky to lure Poochie. Leave her bed outside as a beacon, and scatter Garrett-scented clothes around the yard. Absurd? Sure. Did we question it? Not a chance.

Within hours, Garrett launched a full-scale rescue operation. Two hundred glossy posters of Poochie’s face plastered mailboxes across a 4-mile radius, joined by six large yard signs. Local businesses broke policies to display flyers. Neighbors left food and water at the curb, and one even set up a trail camera. The entire community rallied like this was the Academy Awards of missing dogs.

Then came Lynda, a true Hallmark hero. She appeared out of nowhere with a walking stick, bug spray, water and boundless determination. Every day, Lynda combed the woods, braving heat, ticks and exhaustion, never giving up. She lifted our spirits with drinks from Tropical Smoothie Cafe and cheered us on as if Poochie were her own.

Our hope spiked when trackers arrived with dogs. One dog picked up Poochie’s scent but lost it within a mile. A second tracker with two dogs had no better luck. Desperate, Garrett and Mike turned to a thermal drone operator, but it found only raccoons, no little white Havanese dogs. Undeterred, Garrett and her sister Sara scoured the streets with night vision goggles and searched ponds and woods late into the night.

Courtney found a retired FBI agent turned volunteer dog tracker. Yes, an actual canine Sherlock Holmes.
—Prissy Elrod

Meanwhile, I visited three different shelters and begged them to let me see their captured animals. It was like I was trying to break into a bank vault. “I’m sorry, we don’t have your dog, you can’t go back there,” she said curtly. “Please just let me peek, you can’t be sure,” I begged. “We are. I have a flyer with her photo—we’re sure, ma’am.” And with that I had a meltdown in the animal shelter parking lot.

The saga continued as Mike, a seasoned hunter, set traps inside the sprawling 1,176 acres of Alfred B. Maclay Gardens State Park, though we doubted Poochie’s tiny legs would carry her that far. He checked them two times a day, and every night. Strangers, united by a love for dogs, poured out time, resources and outreach. It was overwhelming, heartwarming and exhausting. Then Poochie went viral. The posts were shared far beyond Tallahassee, reaching into Georgia and Alabama. A cross-country team ran through the wooded trails calling her name. It was a testament to the goodness of people—as well as a show of collective desperation. “Good” was the only theme … until it wasn’t.

Poochie Pranks

Along came the “bad” in the name of scammers. They descended like mosquitoes, each one crueler than the last. “We have your dog, call her name,” said a voice from an unknown caller. Garrett, desperate, would shout, “Poochie!” into the phone. Laughter and a hang-up followed. One scammer, posing as a vet tech, claimed Poochie had been hit by a car and needed emergency surgery. They demanded $1,200 via Venmo. The cruelty was staggering, the family heartbroken. They stopped answering calls. 

I tried to comfort everyone with my ongoing gibberish. “Maybe Poochie knew it was her time,” I said gently. “She didn’t want to burden you with another goodbye.” Garrett nodded as she listened, but her face said, ‘Yeah, OK, Mom.’ Later, she called me in a whisper. “Do you think something … ate her?”

“GOD, NO!” I practically shouted. But I knew Florida’s wildlife could fall into the horror genre. But no, I still do not, Garrett!

Rewards and Reunions

Weeks turned into months. Summer faded into fall, and still there was no Poochie. Leads turned into dead-ends, hope into resignation. Five months after her disappearance, the story took another strange turn. While Garrett and Mike were in New York City, a stranger called claiming to have found Poochie. Skeptical, Garrett asked for proof. The video showed a dirty, matted dog that looked like Poochie. Mike even spoke with the man and thought it might be true. Garrett called Sara, asking her to meet the man in a Steak ’n Shake parking lot. Sara’s husband was furious. “Are you trying to land her in a Dateline episode?” he fumed. Fearless as ever, Sara went anyway. In broad daylight, of course.When she arrived, it was clear—the dog wasn’t Poochie. The stranger didn’t want her, so Sara called Garrett again. “It’s not Poochie, but you’re getting her anyway,” she said.

Sara spent hours driving the dog to multiple closed vets until, finally, one across town was open. It was the same vet that had microchipped the dog four years earlier. The clinic called the owner repeatedly with no answer. “If they don’t respond by 4:30, she’s yours,” the vet told Garrett in a phone call. Garrett left her card on file to cover the dog’s vaccinations and grooming and even sent the stranger a Venmo reward. “It’s not Poochie, but rescuing another dog is worth it,” I told her. But just as Sara arrived to pick up the cleaned-up pup, the rightful owners showed up. 

But I knew Florida’s wildlife could fall into the horror genre.
—Prissy Elrod

Then, a week before Christmas, a call came. It wasn’t about Poochie, but a new beginning. A 12-week-old Havanese, a Poochie look-alike in Ocala, needed a home. Garrett hesitated for barely a second before saying “yes.” Two days later, a little bundle of fur joined their family. The sixth pet in my life to start with the letter P—after Phillipe, Prudence, Puddles, Pooh and Poochie—they named her “Poppy.” Forgive me if I can’t remember that for a while.

Poochie’s story is a tapestry of the good, the bad and the ugly. The good? An outpouring of love from strangers and friends. The bad? The heartbreak and cruelty of those who exploit others’ pain. The ugly? Life doesn’t always tie up with a neat bow. Poochie is gone. 

Poppy didn’t replace Poochie, but she reminded us of a simple truth: When one door closes, another opens—sometimes after five months and countless tears. 

And Garrett? Well, she learned a lasting lesson: Never assume someone else let the dog inside the house. 

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For more of Prissy Elrod’s adventures, click here.

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