A Dispatch from Australia
A Story of a Hunger Strike
I’m writing this from the other side of the world, a place where the sun rises while home is settling into night. But a single text message can erase thirteen hours and thousands of miles in a heartbeat.
Yesterday afternoon, Portland time, my phone lit up. It was a photo from my mom, who is watching our dog, Chase, while we’re in Australia. The picture was of Chase, lying by the front door, his posture a quiet statement of grief.
Then, the words: “Hasn’t eaten anything today.”
My heart sank. Chase is a rescue with a deep history of abandonment, and this is his signature move when he’s overwhelmed by sadness. It’s his strike. A silent, heartbreaking protest. What followed was a frantic, long distance vigil that stretched deep into the Portland night.
Later in the evening, some small comforts arrived. I sent a voice recording for my mom to play, and she told me his ear perked up as he looked for me. A second photo came through, showing him curled up on my dad’s lap, a safe harbor. He was being held and loved, but the reports remained the same. It was then I suggested something more tangible: find one of my dirty socks, stretch it over his favorite stuffed toy, and give him my scent to hold onto.
As the night deepened, the worry grew. The messages continued, culminating in a late-night message that every parent of a human or a pet understands, “I don’t think I am going to be able to sleep tonight.” Her last message arrived at nearly 3 AM her time.
It was then, as I tried to reassure her from my afternoon here, that I found the wisdom we both needed. We’re staying with my father-in-law, who has a lifetime of experience understanding dogs. He listened patiently before offering a calm certainty. “He’ll eat when he gets hungry,” he said. “He’s adjusting, and maybe protesting a bit. But he won’t let himself starve. It’s not in his nature.”
That simple dose of perspective, passed from a father-in-law in Australia to a son, then relayed to a worried mother in Portland, was the piece of reassurance we needed. That wisdom, paired with a worn sock of mine placed with his favorite toy, was what finally allowed everyone to rest.
This is the reality of traveling when you love a rescue dog. It’s a trade-off. You carry a low hum of guilt, but you also learn to trust the village that loves him with you. His grief was held by the loving arms of his grandparents, and our worry was calmed by the wisdom of family. And for that, from thousands of miles away, I am so grateful.
-R. Michael
(P.S. I don’t normally send an extra email during the week, but some stories from the road just can’t wait. Thanks for being here for the real-time updates. We’ll be back with our regularly scheduled post on Friday.)