My first dog was a little orange-coloured Australian Terrier cross. I was 12 years old and brought him home from the SPCA after my first day of volunteer work there. My parents said I could keep him but told me not to bring any more animals home.
We named him Bobby but he soon earned the nickname ‘Australian Terror’ on account of the mischief he got into.
One day after returning home from one of our walks, Bobby and I entered the lounge and sat down. Bobby was sitting on the floor with his lead still attached to his collar when my mother came into the lounge to vacuum the floor. Bobby watched the vacuum cleaner and as it came closer, he picked up his lead in his mouth and jumped onto the couch – safely out of reach.
Bobby liked to run – fast. And he also liked to escape our backyard whenever possible. On one of these occasions, Bobby saw the garden gate was open and ran away. Our neighbours saw a car filled with teenage boys stop, pick up Bobby and put him in their car before driving away. Unfortunately the car sped off before our neighbours could record the licence plate number. I was distraught. Our family contacted the local pound, the SPCA, the police and phoned all our friends and family to keep an eye out for him.
I didn’t sleep that night, just tossed and turned, worrying about where he was and what might be happening to him.
The next day, we were sitting in the kitchen discussing what to do next, when in trotted Bobby. After wagging his little stubby tail and saying hello to us all, he went straight to his water dish, lapped up some water, then stood in it with all four of his paws cooling off.
We never did find out what had happened to him or where he had been taken. But somehow he had found his way back to us.

Author: Denise
Country: New Zealand
True story: Yes
Rating: 13 paws up
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