From the BBC:
“Searching for the lost dogs
of the Beirut blast”
It wasn't only humans who were
hurt and terrified by the massive blast when a Beirut warehouse containing a
highly explosive fertiliser went up in smoke, many animals ran for their lives.
A concerted effort took place to reunite owners with their missing pets - but some,
like Leila Molana-Allen, had to endure a long and heart-wrenching wait. A white
hot flash, and I was hurled into the corner of the room. My peripheral vision
was a sea of flying glass and splintering wood. As I came to, ears ringing, and
clambered over the debris of what had seconds before been my bedroom, my first
thought was of my family. Not my birth family, safe across the Mediterranean,
but my chosen Beirut family, with whom I had built a life within these
whitewashed walls. A blur of black and gold streaking through the gaping hole
of our exploded front door told me the furry members of our pack had made it
out alive. I grabbed my flatmate Lizzie and we did our best to avoid the jagged
piles of glass that formed a treacherous pathway out of the wreckage. The next
few hours are a blur of blood, phone calls, first aid and anxiety. The double
explosion had reminded many of us of a missile strike, still such a vivid
memory from the 2006 war. We feared a second hit, and tried to gather dazed and
terrified neighbours under the most solid protective structure, a staircase.
Suddenly, there was Fred, the elder of our two dogs, who had found his way back
home. For the next few days he sat loyal and silent by my side, defending the
ruins of our home after a kind upstairs neighbour took us in. But the puppy -
named Bunduq (hazelnut in Arabic), for his habit of curling into a ball with
his tail sticking up like the nut's peak - was nowhere to be found. It is a
cliché of animal rescue that "I didn't choose my pet, he chose me."
Fred found me one day after being rescued from the street by a friend and
brought to a café I was working in. He pootled over and curled up in my lap,
and suddenly I had a dog. Two years later, in March this year, a scared, sick
puppy turned up on my doorstep; as coronavirus panic took hold, his owners
feared germs and wanted rid of him. I agreed to take him in for a few days, but
from the moment he rolled on to his back demanding a belly rub, it was clear
this wouldn't be a temporary arrangement. I have always been ready to pack up
and move on at a moment's notice. These loveable, mischievous fur balls are the
most settled element I've allowed into my life since childhood. The feeling of
opening the door after a long day, or a challenging work trip, to be greeted by
squealing, nuzzling adoration is one of the greatest comforts I've ever known.
And suddenly the home I had built and made a safe space for myself and these
rescued animals had been shattered. Dozens of dogs were lost in the blast, and
in our "dog mum" WhatsApp group and social media feeds, one by one
they were found. "They're all hiding and need to hear your voices so
they'll come out," people said. My feet were torn up in the blast and
after they were stitched back together by exhausted, wonderful doctors at
hospital, I couldn't walk for several days. I felt helpless and prayed Bunduq
would find his way home, rushing to the door every time I heard a bark.
Picking up the pieces of a
shattered city The response from my
community was overwhelming. Friends trawled the neighbourhood with photos of
Bunduq, tracking down witnesses who had seen him sprinting through the city
after the blast. I sent posters and photographs everywhere I think of, and they
were shared around the world and sent back to Lebanon many times over. A local
animal charity sent out teams of volunteers to scour the streets for hours,
forming a dedicated "Bunduq search squad". I watched and hoped, but
there was no sign. After a few days, with my Hazelnut one of the last
still lost, I began to lose hope. Perhaps he had been hit by a car, or suffered
such serious glass cuts that he had died, alone and afraid, on the street. Several
days later I was working on a story, writing about sniffer dogs searching for
survivors in the rubble. Filming them had brought me to tears as I struggled to
put Bunduq out of my mind. Suddenly, a message popped up on my phone. "Did
you lose a dog?" Thinking it was one of the dozens of people who'd
contacted me asking for more pictures to help the search, I said yes. "I
think I have him," the messager said. "Where?" "In
Tripoli." It didn't seem possible. Tripoli, Lebanon's second
largest city, was 80km (50 miles) away. "That couldn't be
him," I responded. "We live in Beirut." A video popped
up, downloading painfully slowly on the devastated city's patchy internet. And
there he was. Scared, a little bloodied, but alive. His rescuer had
found him, terrified and injured, alone in the streets, shortly after the
explosion. He was leaving Beirut to return to his family in Tripoli, and with
no other option he simply picked Bunduq up and put him in the car. In the
following days he had posted pictures, just as I had, and finally someone had
connected the dots. Bunduq was terrified, the rescuer said, and asked me to
speak to him on the phone. Hearing my voice, his tail suddenly started wagging.
The relief was overwhelming, but
with no car and limited mobility I had no way to get him home. Lebanon's animal
lovers sprang into action. Over the next few hours I received dozens of calls
and messages as they hatched a plan to get him back to me. And then one more:
he was in a car, with yet another person I had never met, and on his way home.
By 2am he was back in my arms, saved by a network of human beings who had done
everything they could to save him, while also dealing with the impact of this
disaster on their own lives. We're separated again now, the dogs evacuated to
the mountains with my flatmate, Lizzie, while I await surgery to reconnect
tendons in my foot that were severed by the blast. The flat may never recover.
We still don't know whether the building is stable enough to move back in. But
somewhere, we'll build one again, and we'll be home. Because home is where the
hounds are.
^ This is one of the saddest
things I have heard in awhile and it being 2020 that is saying something. I am
so glad that the dog was found, but I’m sure there are many more dogs, cats, pets,
etc. in similar situations. ^
https://www.bbc.com/news/stories-53951675