There was cause for concern and I could feel it in my hollow chest cavity, like the accelerated heartbeats were exiting my windpipe. Not a great feeling.

The wheels were spinning wildly. Had the mother removed it from the litter and hidden it elsewhere in the stable? If so, why? Was it sick? Dead? How else would a two-week old male pup, eyes opened for about a day, disappear from its whelping pen?

It had been a few days since I decided to give Lily some “space” by taking the three pups out of the 50-gallon box-stall drum in which they had been born, transferring them to a secure whelping pen placed in the back corner and leaving the box-stall door open, giving Lily free reign in the contained stables, six stalls, four open. The four-foot-square, portable, wooden pen would give the pups room to develop their legs, while the open box stall allowed Lily to get away, monitor her pups from afar and tend to them upon request. She seemed comfortable with the arrangement, choosing the back of an open stall some 15 feet from the box stall for her down time, always listening for the call of hungry pups.

Sometimes when I entered the stables Lily, snuggled behind stuffed chairs covered in storage, would appear at the mouth of the open stall, tail wagging, happy to see me; other times, I’d hear her stir, hop the whelping-pen wall and walk the runway toward me, ready for brief respite during a hilltop hayfield romp.

The last time I had seen the three English springer spaniel pups, born midday June 2, had been around noon, plump and healthy, tangled in a cozy slumber pile. One, a liver-and-white female, had opened its eyes two days earlier, the other two, both white and liver —male and female — had popped theirs open a day later; so all three were experiencing a bright new world in clouded color. I had entered the stables with Lily after returning from the hayfield, she checked her pups over the 18-inch walls and followed me toward the front door, which I exited, leaving her behind, confident all were safe and sound.

Later that day, just after Tiger failed to catch an unknown Argentine down the stretch of the U.S. Open, a glorious development in my world, I decided to feed my two mature dogs and check on the pups. Entering the front stable door, Lily was standing calmly at the threshold, wagging half-excitedly. She followed me up the runway toward the box stalls at the rear and we took a right turn toward the side door, which I opened, releasing her into the yard. We both headed for the kennel by the brook, me walking gingerly on a irritated left knee, she running to greet her buddy Ringo, or, as I usually say it for verbal effect, “her buddy Bingo.” You know, it’s all about the hard Bs.

When I reached the chain-link kennel and released Ringo, both dogs ran into the soothing brook, walking downstream, knee-deep, taking occasional drinks. Lily took a moment to lie on her belly and slurp drinks while enjoying the cool, free-flowing Green River tributary that bubbles out of some upland marsh in Shelburne’s Patten District. Finished drinking, she stood, water dripping from her swollen nipples, and shook a rainstorm before joining Ringo on the trail of something wild along the opposite bank, a temporary diversion.

Wagner No. 8 in hand, I entered the shaded, brook-side cook shed, opened a plastic container where I store the Iams, dumped a scoop-and-a-quarter into the skillet, walked it back to the kennel, placed it in the dirt floor and gave the dogs a sharp whistle that brought them quickly. Ringo new the drill, saw the skillet and came willingly. Lily followed, sniffed around the mouth of the cedar-floored 50-gallon drum she’s slept in so many times, and followed me back to the barn and her pup.

It was when we re-entering the box-stall home of the young pups that I discovered my crisis. To my astonishment, one pup was missing. A quick inspection told me it was the male. How could it be?

I watched Lily to see if she’d lead me to her missing pup; no such look. So I went on a search mission, pondering all the possibilities, some good, others dreadful. The first place I checked was the open stall Lily had been using. I squeezed past a covered stuffed chair and inspected the floor space behind it. No pup. Hmmmm? I leaned the chair back on its back legs and looked underneath. Still nothing. Perplexing indeed. Where had it gone?

I repeated the search in the other three open stalls, peeling back the sheets and blankets protecting chairs and tables, shifting old barrels and lumber piles, leaning an old four-panel door away from the wall. Still nothing visible or audible, it was time for a reassessment. Could it be wedged into a crack or hidden hole in the floor? Had it slipped through a space in the floor and fallen through into the cellar? Surely doubtful, yet not out of the question. The more I thought, the more I worried.

Pressed for time with work beckoning, I went into the house and calmly told my wife about the development. A pup was missing. Speaking to her brother on the phone, she promptly ended the conversation and accompanied me back to the stables to resume the search, she more alarmed than I.

We re-entered the stable, passed two open stalls on the left, flipped the light switch on the opposite wall and went directly to the open box stall and whelping pen. We looked at the two remaining pups in their pen and I reached down to stir the deep cedar shavings on the floor with my forefinger, making sure the missing male wasn’t covered in the corner. No dice. So I stood, backed off a bit and glanced down by chance, catching something white out of the corner of my eye wedged into the tight space between the pen and the stall’s east wall. Upon closer inspection, sure enough, the male pup sleeping peacefully. Relieved, I reached down, slid the pen’s corner away from the wall a foot or so to create space, picked the pup up and reunited it with its littermates.

In my first quick assessment after discovering a pup was missing, one scenario I had not considered was that it had escaped the whelping pen on its own. It was beyond my imagination that a two-week-old puppy, eyes open a day or less, could climb onto the protective, six-inch, footed platform surrounding the inner border of the pen, get its feet into the open doorway, again a good six inches above the platform, and tumble over the side to freedom.

The thought of the whole ordeal lit my face with a soft grin. Do you think that dog will hunt? Was it ever a question? With national-champions from the U.S., Canada and Great Britain behind both dam and sire, you can bet your house and all chattels on it.

But now, less than three weeks into litter, I have issues. My plan was to keep a female and carry Ringo’s pedigree forward. That could change. Maybe I’ll take inquisitive male.

Time will tell.