It's Sunday, so time for a special interest story on Reading Montreal. Some little tale about the forces of good triumphing over evil - humanitarian acts of kindness - the generosity of the human spirit and all that.

How about a lost dog story? How about MY lost dog story?

First, a bit of background. Horace is a rescued greyhound who came to Montreal with us when we moved back from England. He is originally from TIA Greyhound and Lurcher Rescue in West Yorkshire - an astounding place where there were about 80 other dogs just like him looking for homes. We wanted to leave with about fifty of them but one was all we could handle, especially knowing he would have to fly back in the belly of an airplane.

Well, I am now convinced that Horace's airplane trip was less traumatic than what happened to him yesterday.

As is the usual practice (we've done this a hundred times) I tied Horace up to the post outside the Dep while I ran in to get milk. I came back out and saw the proverbial nightmare vision of the limp leash. No dog. I thought he was stolen (is this what people feel like in New York City parking garages when their car is just not there anymore?) but when I asked a couple guys standing there Did you see a greyhound? They said, Yeah... umm.... he went that way (fingers pointing toward the Atwater Tunnel entrance and the schmozzle that was Market traffic on a Saturday morning.) Merde. The little borrowed leash he was wearing that day, I later realised, sucked. A tiny wire ring was no match for a strong greyhound who, for some reason, either got spooked or thought I'd left without him. Horace had never done this in his life.

Okay, so here's where the human interest story part starts: the next thing I knew, the look of terror on my face must have been beamed live to the metropolitan population of Montreal because people started randomly rolling down their windows and asking whether I was looking for my Beau Chien and pointing in various directions where they had last seen him. I ran towards the Canal, scene of the last sighting, and more people knodded and said Yes, they had seen him. Go That Way.... An elderly couple gave me a ride to the last spot they'd seen him. A man stopped me and asked for my address in case he found Horace. A couple of tough boys said they'd look for him and ran off. It was incredible.

Still no Horace, though.

So I ran back to the flat, grabbed my keys, ran out the door, unlocked my landlord's carriage house where he lets us keep our bikes and mounted my trusty 1927 Royal Enfield in order to increase my chances of pursuit. (I would later get teased about this bike by one of the cops helping me to locate Horace. You won't catch your dog with that old clunker, he laughed. I laughed too. I think he was trying to keep me from crying in front of him...)

Anyway, more kindnesses shown: two women and their dogs became part of the search team, reporting to me with each go-round whether they'd seen him and where. An anonymous person had called the police station to report a dog running up by the locks so the cop came over and told me. More happy Market goers pointed to the Canal and said There he is!!! I looked, and sure enough, there was this waif of a dog in the distance walking Jesus-like on top of the canal. Merde again.

The canal had been thawing for the past two days and Horace can't swim. Panic set in as I rode desperately to the side of the water so I could get close enough to call to him. By the time I had reached the place where he had been running across the ice he wasn't there anymore. Like an apparition, he had disappeared. I doubted that I had, in fact, seen him. I yelled to one of my newfound search-mates who was standing on the other bank of the canal: Where did he go?!? Did you see where he went?!? She said NO but I'll follow the path where he might have gone...

Of course I was thinking he'd gone under not up. Do dead dogs float?

I didn't have time to look. I didn't want to look. Instead I headed off again on my lumbering, clanking bike. I must have ridden up and down the side of the canal from the Market to the locks five times on the so called 'walking path' that was so full of slush that I kept falling off or having to walk my bike through a foot of water. My blundstones were sodden by the end of it. I was getting more and more desperate and still more and more people kept saying they had Just Seen Him. I followed their pointing fingers, continually afraid for the worst (I would scan the icy waters every now and then with a reluctant stare). But still, they kept calming me, advising me, feeling sorry for me, offering to drive around in their cars for me. If only Horace had known that all the world was wishing him home....

Maybe he did know.

After four hours of this not-so-madcap adventure, I was so strung out and so cold and so exhausted that I crawled back to the flat to get some water and a coat. I had been back every half hour, circling by in case I would see Horace's lanky frame standing on our front balcony waiting for me, but to no avail. This time, though, the door was open (I had left it unlocked and ajar in my mad rush hours earlier) and as I flung my spent body up the stairs and into the door of our hallway I heard whining and footsteps and more whining and... well, there was Horace staring at me.

I couldn't stare at him for too long because tears came blubbering out and my legs gave way and there we lay, on the hallway floor, in a heap of wet fur.

Thank you to everyone who helped us yesterday. Horace is home and Montreal is that much sweeter a city because of it....