In the summer of 1965, two months after I had gotten my driver’s license, I was working for my parents’ diecasting business 35 miles east of Rochester. My job was to drive up to various points in the city, pick up parts and supplies, and bring them back to the small manufacturing facility. My parents prime stud dog, Golly, was a constant companion to whoever held the job. Having a Newfoundland as your wingman is essentially traveling with a friendly, pony-sized, fur-covered partner that drools like the spillway on the Grand Coulee Dam. Golly fit the bill perfectly. He’d lean his giant, shaggy weight against me with quiet devotion, followed every command with thoughtful grace, and was the kind of best friend a teenager never forgets.

One afternoon at the Greater Rochester Airport freight terminal, I swung the station wagon into a parking space surrounded by 18-wheelers. I flung open the door and Golly hopped out, sniffing like he had urgent business. I left him to it and headed toward the dock. The odor of jet fuel permeated the air, while a clipboard waving clerk ushered me in for the part I was to pick up.

Two minutes — maybe less — and I was back outside. Usually, by then, Golly would be planted beside the wagon, tail thumping, ready for the next leg of our rounds.

On this day, however, Golly was nowhere to be seen. I did a quick search, expecting him to come trotting up to me, but couldn’t find him. I wasn’t too worried. After all, a 150-pound big black dog with a splash of white on his chest doesn’t stay hidden too long.

Kitty Drury with one of her furry friends in 1976 (Provided photo)

After 10 minutes, tightness spread up the back of my neck. As the freight trucks slowly passed me on the access road, I tried to look through each one, hoping for a glimpse of black fur. Nothing. My stomach felt hollow as I ducked into the terminal and got the creative idea to call the control tower.

A calm, almost cheerful voice answered. (Unlike the past month, these air-traffic controllers had been paid.) I asked if anyone had spotted a big black dog tearing across the runways. I held my breath, listening to the faint hum of radios behind him.

“Nope,” he said. “No unidentified furry object out there.”

The joke fell flat. Where was he? A cold thought settled into my gut: what if I’d managed to lose one of best friends and my parents’ most valuable dog?

What was a 16-year-old to do? I found the nearest pay phone (cell phones hadn’t even been imagined yet) and called the company accountant and resident Newfoundland expert, my mother.

“Mom, I let the dog out to pee, and he never came back! What should I do?”

She was amazingly calm. “Talk to the airport police and call the local sheriff. Ask them to keep an eye out for him. Call me back with what you find out.”

I went to the main terminal, found a policeman and explained the situation. He said he’d keep a look out. I called the Monroe County Sheriff’s office. An officer said they’d keep a look out. Despairing with their vague responses, I filled the pay phone with quarters again and called my mom back. She said, “Come on home, there’s not much more you can do.” I headed home feeling utterly heartbroken and frantic with worry.

That evening detective Kitty Drury (my mom) caught a break in the case. A fellow dog fancier happened to be returning from a trip, and as he exited the airport, he witnessed a Newfoundland dog jumping into the backseat of a taxi. He thought it strange so reached out to my mother. It wasn’t strange to my mother. Golly was the friendliest behemoth you’ll ever find. He probably would have followed Charles Manson to the Spahn Ranch. Unfortunately, my parents had no luck tracking down the taxi or its driver.

Not waiting for the next break in the case, my mother put a classified ad in the Rochester Democrat & Chronicle; “Newfoundland dog lost at Rochester Airport. Reward for information leading to its return.”

The next day came the big break. Another dog fancier friend of my mom’s called and shared an intriguing tale. Her veterinarian called and asked her if she knew anything about a missing Newfoundland.

Evidently, a man brought Golly to the vet asking how much he was worth. The vet had the man’s name and address. Fortunately, the thief wasn’t smart enough to leave a phony name and address.

The next morning, my mother, my high-school buddy Dave Mark and I headed up to Greece, a quiet Rochester suburb. The house at the address was a modest two-story place, with faded green clapboard siding and a sagging porch that seemed to serve as the main entrance. I eased the car into the gravel drive, the tires crunching in the stillness.

At my mother’s insistence, Dave and I stayed put. “Be ready,” she said, her eyes flicking toward the house. She wanted us primed for a fast getaway, and it was clear she meant it. Dave and I muttered through some half-baked fight strategies, our nerves making everything sound tougher than it would ever look.

Mom stepped out and strode toward the porch with the kind of confidence that dared someone to challenge her. Dave and I watched through the windshield as she climbed the steps and knocked on the door. It swung open to reveal a short, heavyset man in sagging shorts and a threadbare sleeveless T-shirt. Before he could even form a greeting, a blur of black fur shot past his legs — Golly, tail whipping, barreled straight for the car.

Without time to think, I flung my door open, and he jumped inside with a thump and a happy snort. Relieved, but knowing that the adventure wasn’t over, I started the car and prepared for takeoff.

My mother handed the man a $20 bill and said, “Thank you so much for finding our dog,” and started to leave.

The guy took the bill, looked at it and yelled, “This isn’t enough for such a valuable dog!”

“Maybe not,” said my mother. “But it’s good enough for you.”

He started to put his hand on my mother’s arm. She snarled, “Don’t you dare touch me!”

He yanked his hand back, at which point my mother turned on her heel and swiftly walked down the stairs into the awaiting car.

Four happy beings sped out of the driveway, drove out of Greece, never looked back, and never returned.