While not a Luddite, I will admit my computer skills are deficient, if not almost defunct. But they’re also adequate for my uses. Good thing they are too, because in an emergency, it can be a lifesaver, literally. And that’s exactly what it was for me a couple weeks ago.

The life that got saved wasn’t mine — it was my dog Daisy’s. And the specific path of salvation was Saranac Lake Neighbor Helping Neighbor.

If you don’t know SLNHN, it’s a Facebook group, the brainchild of Gail Brill, and a brilliant one at that. Essentially, it’s a cyber-bulletin board, on which people post all kinds of things. Not allowed are items for sale, political screeds, jokes, editorials and probably some other stuff I’m too lazy to look up.

You get the idea, I’m sure, which is if you want to give something away, need goods or services, want to know or announce road conditions or need help of any sort, it’s a vital service. For example, I’ve found four cellphones over the past few years, posted each on FB and each owner was found within the hour. I’ve also posted that I needed something and — Voila! — the offers came through, also within the hour.

But those things pale compared to what SLNHN did for me a couple weeks ago.

I have two dogs, a 15-year-old hound named Jesse, and a 14-year-old possible chihuahua-daschund combo named Daisy. Jesse, as befits his heritage, is low-key, easy-going and unfailingly polite. Daisy is wired to the eyeballs, full of vim and vigor and loves everyone, to the point of near-maniacal PDA’s.

When it comes to dog training, I’m pretty much of the passive parenting school. My dogs know Sit, No, Supper, Ride in the Car, Treat and probably a few others. But when it comes to Heel, Come, Fetch, Find the Bomb or the Bong and that sort of thing, fergit it. I’m no Gunther Gebel-Williams, and my dogs are no Lassies or Rin Tin Tins. As a result, they are ALWAYS leashed, except when in the car or at home. The reason I don’t leash them in the car is because the leashes can tangle in their legs, and since Jesse has arthritis, I don’t want to risk him getting tripped up and falling.

My SLNHN lifesaving adventure began uneventfully enough. I’d taken the dogs for their postprandial walk, after which they got treated to a ride to Aldi. On our way back, on Church Street Jesse signaled he had to make a head call. I immediately wheeled into the nearest parking place, which was the Presbyterian church parking lot. I clipped on his leash and he ambled out, wrote his name in the snow and ambled back to the car. Then we all went home.

At least I THOUGHT we all went home. Daisy always rides in the back of the car, either on the seat or on the ledge under the rear window, but she was in neither. It was pitch-black since it was six o’clock, so at first I thought she was there, but not moving. Once I turned on the dome light, the God-awful truth hit me like a direct hit amidships: When I’d taken out Jesse in the parking lot, she’d snuck out on my blind side and I’d left her there. Now she was cold, alone, in an area she’d never been and terrified.

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Fruitless searching …

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I sprinted into the house, dragging Jesse behind me and once inside, I immediately fired up my iPad, went on Facebook and went to SLNHN. Once there, I posted the W’s of Daisy’s being on the loose, my phone number and a pic of her. Next I called the Amazon Queen, to let her know what was going on and to keep an eye on SLNHN, in case there was any news. After that, I got in the car, tore to town and pulled into the Presbyterian church parking lot. As I’d expected, she was nowhere in sight.

I called her name, ran into the St. Bernard’s, called some more and went back in the Presbyterian lot. Since it was obvious she was nowhere either within sight or hearing, I widened the search and ran into St. Bernard’s Street. A car was parked there, with its flashers on and when I got to it, the woman behind the wheel asked me if I’d lost a dog. I told her I had, and she said she ran it over.

“Ran it over?” I said. “Is it dead?”

“No,” she said. “It ran off down the hill. But I heard a thump.”

Then she added, “I didn’t mean to do it, it was an accident, I feel terrible.”

The poor woman was on the verge of tears, so I did my best to calm her down, told her she did nothing wrong, it wasn’t her fault — all the while trying not to burst into tears myself.

Since she ran down the hill, so did I. On Lake Flower Ave, I looked around, then looked in Riverside Park. There were no fresh dog tracks in the snow, so I went in back of the town hall, then the village parking lot, then the other village parking lot, desperately calling her. And suddenly it dawned on me: There were literally THOUSANDS of places she could be that I’d never even think of checking, or be able to check if I wanted to. This was especially true if she was injured and had crawled under a car or a porch or in an alley or anything. No matter how positive I tried to be, finding her seemed impossible.

It was pitch dark, the temp 10 degrees and falling and the brutal reality was in that environment, she had a life expectancy measured in hours. And if I didn’t find, her, I’d have a guilty conscience forever.

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… and cyber success!

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I realized I needed help, so I called Doc McHugh and the Gaelic Goofball, both of whom met me on the Riverside Park bridge, as did Jennifer Zahn, who’d seen my post on SLNHN.

By then I’d been looking for almost an hour and both my nerves and hopes were in the same condition — shot. Of course, I wasn’t about to give up, but I had no idea how to proceed in any systematic and constructive way. Should Doc and I go up Lake Street Hill and send Jen and GG up Main Street or down Lake Flower Ave, or up Helen Street, or to Dorsey Street, or or or or …? You get the idea, I’m sure.

While we were standing there, a van stopped across the street. The window lowered and I saw Joy Cranker behind the wheel.

“I’ve got Daisy,” she said.

“Where?” I shouted.

“Here,” she said, “in the car.”

“How is she?” I asked.

“Good,” she said.

“Is she injured?”

“No,” she said. “I checked her out, she seems fine.”

(Note: I later figured out the lady in the car hadn’t hit Daisy, but the dog, being freaked-out, had run into the car.)

I ran over to the van, Daisy’s leash in hand (which I’d forgotten I even had with me) and there indeed was the little escape artist, perfectly comfortable and happy, sitting in one of Joy’s boys laps, basking in the kindness of strangers.

Joy said they were driving on Main Street a bit after six and saw something small and dark sprinting ahead of them, in the middle of the street. which of course was Daisy. They trailed her as she ran down Berkeley hill, then up Broadway, nearly getting hit by a couple of cars, till she went into the parking lot across from Bitters and Bones. They followed, called to her, she came over and scooped her up. So even though I’d been looking for her for an hour, she’d been loose only for about 10 or 15 minutes before the Crankers got a hold of her.

Though Joy told me, I can’t remember the details of what they did after finding Daisy, other than looking on SLNHN and then coming downtown to look for me. Then again, the details weren’t important — only the result was, which in this case was a happy ending.

Yes, it was a happy ending to what could’ve been an unimagined, and unimaginable personal tragedy. And, ultimately, it was due to the Cranker family and SLNHN.

As a certified (and probably certifiable) Viejo Farto, I often find myself in convos with fellow VF’s talking about The Glory Days, when cars were fast, food was slow and folks read books, wrote letters and actually talked on the phone.

There’s nothing wrong with revisiting a utopia that may never have existed. It gets us through gloomy bouts of 21st century cultural dislocation, at least for a little while, plus it’s free, legal and nonaddictive.

But everything’s a trade-off and nobody rides for free. When I raise my veil of sweet nostalgia, I realize that in those blissful pre-internet days, looking for a dog would’ve involved stapling posters on telephone poles (posters that couldn’t have been made anywhere in town at night), desperate prayer and results I don’t even want to think about.