Ann Morris didn't know how long the dead raccoon had been in her yard or whether her family's German shepherd mix, Coco, had been near it. But she knew raccoons could carry rabies, so she called Forsyth County Animal Control to see if the raccoon could be tested.
What happened next made her heart sink.
The animal-control officer told her that, while dead raccoons could be tested for rabies, this particular raccoon had been dead too long for the test to yield results. Morris and her family — as well as anyone else who'd been in her yard — would need a series of rabies shots to protect them.
And Coco — who'd sat with Morris when she was sick, who'd played gently with her youngest son when he was a baby — would either need to be quarantined or euthanized.
Receptionists at most veterinary clinics she called told her they did not accept dogs that might have been exposed to rabies. The ones that would quarantine Coco would put him in a cage for six months, at a cost of around $18 a day — more than $3,200 for the full six-month period.
Morris has had a series of serious health problems, and she and her husband, Jason, have two children. It was that stress — going to doctors, raising children — she said, that made them forget Coco's vaccine in the first place.
Spending thousands of dollars to quarantine Coco was out of the question. And even if they could afford it, they were pretty sure Coco would not be the same dog after spending half a year confined to a cage.
"I was dumbfounded," Morris said. "Our choices were either put him down for possible exposure or put him in a box for six months. And (his vaccinations) hadn't been out of date that long."
While the couple worried about what to tell their sons and about how they would decide what to do with the only dog their family ever had, an animal-control officer was answering a call to a woman named Mildred White.
White has been rescuing animals for decades — in the 1970s, she helped organize the Davie County Humane Society.
The animal-control officer mentioned Coco's case, and White was appalled. She asked the officer to pass her phone number on to the Morrises.
"I just knew there was something that could be done for Coco," White said. "He didn't have to be put down."
White called her vet, James Beeson at Village Way Veterinary Hospital in Advance, and told him about the case. Beeson agreed to quarantine Coco at a reduced price. Coco would have to stay confined for three weeks, but then, if he showed no signs of being rabid, could run outside once a day.
"I didn't think he'd probably even gotten exposed," Beeson said. "He was kind of a special case."
White started fundraising, too, and collected nearly $1,400 to pay for Coco's quarantine.
That was in August.
On Wednesday, Coco went home.
The Morris family — Ann, Jason, Carson, 12, and Quentin, 6 — walked into Village Way Veterinary Hospital a little after 9 a.m. White came, too. Beeson escorted them to an examination room.
"Wait here," he said, then exited out the room's back door. Everyone waited. Ann and James leaned against walls in the room. Carson stood frozen, staring at the door. Quentin wandered back and forth between his parents, asking questions about his dog.
Then the back door opened, and a furry black and tan face appeared.
Carson and Quentin gasped before shouting: "Coco! Coco!"
"There he is," Ann said softly, and her eyes brightened with tears.
"He's not sick anymore!" Quentin said.
"Who's a good puppy?" Carson asked. "You're a good puppy."
"I miss you," Quentin said. "I missed you."
lgraff@wsjournal.com
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