Hardto believe that an entire decade has passed since I started taking notes on amemoir about Sgt. Thomas Tibbs. Eighteen months after being rescued fromhorrific conditions, he had made so much progress (progress that began with thelove and patience of volunteers at Friends of Upland Animal Shelter), I knew Iwanted to chronicle his story, beginning to end. If I could discover much abouthis beginning.

Turnsout, that has been a challenge.

Sevenyears ago, after I retired from teaching and returned to my first love, Ipulled out my notes from three years prior and started adding to them. At thattime, I was able to contact two gentlemen who were administrators in animalcontrol at the time of Thom’s rescue. One refused to talk to me. The otheragreed to a phone interview, then spoke incessantly about how difficult it isto be the director of a county animal shelter—one that is notorious for havinga “high-kill” rate. He kept me on the phone for four hours and never answeredany of my questions.

LastThursday was a beautiful day in the High Desert of Southern California. I droveup to Apple Valley to visit the very modern library there, to see if perhaps areference librarian could help unearth some stories that might have run in thelocal newspapers in 2013.

Nope.No reference librarian at all. And no newspapers. “We don’t keep those for morethan a week or so,” one of the kind ladies at the desk told me. There were twoof them, and in between checking out books and telling people the restroom code,they listened, intrigued, as I told them Thom’s story. Neither remembered itfrom the news. Both wanted to help. One of them began an internet search usingnames I gave her—and came up with all the information I already had.

Ileft a bit discouraged, but undaunted. From there, I did a long drive down adirt road, looking for the property where Thomas was born—Rainbow’s End AnimalSanctuary. If ever a name were ironic…. The property is allegedly (according toa Facebook page, so the info is taken with a grain of salt) on Zuni Road, so Idrove the length of that long, meandering road. No way to tell where it mighthave been.

Stillundaunted, I pulled to a stop by some rural mailboxes to snap the above photo(and check in with a friend who had been calling, worried, for hours, knowing Iwould be on this quest by myself in the middle of a rural area). As my littleSubaru idled, a white-haired woman pulled up to get her mail, and I saunteredover to ask her if she’d ever heard of the “sanctuary.”

Whatshe told me in great detail I will not discuss here, so as not to subject you,my dear, dog-loving Reader, to the horrors she shared with me. If you canfollow this thread: Her neighbor’s husband’s brother used to work at thesanctuary. The neighbor, a dear friend of the woman I was speaking to, died ofcancer.

“Soyou no longer have contact with the husband?” I asked, knowing all too well theanswer.

“No,”she said, shaking her head. “I don’t even know where he is or how to get intouch with him.”

Maybeit’s just as well.

Icouldn’t leave Apple Valley without stopping by the overflowing shelter there,walking through the kennels and finding four or five or six dogs I wanted totake home. Before that, I asked a woman at the desk if anyone working there nowhad worked there in 2013.

“No,I don’t think so,” was her reply. I gave her my contact numbers, telling herbriefly about Thomas, about why I was seeking information. She said she wouldhave someone call me if anyone knew anything.

Sofar, that hasn’t panned out, either.

Here’swhat I know, and it boils down to two dynamics:

1.Somebody up there knows something.

2.I’m not just stubborn, I’m Irish stubborn.

Soyeah, I’m not giving up. Thomas will have a book about his majestic selfbecause he’s—he was—beautiful and he deserves it, my sweet boy. And I have athing or two to say about companioning with a feral dog.

Asalways, stay tuned.