Where’s Challah?

By Cody Pearlman

Every morning at 7:15 sharp, Sharon Goldman brewed a pot of strong Darjeeling tea, buttered half a bagel and opened the kitchen window to greet the world. Her little cottage in Pikesville was tucked between rows of elderberry bushes and lilac trees, their fragrance lacing the air like a memory. And without fail, Challah—the shaggy golden mutt from three houses down—would trot up the path with his owner in tow, plop on her porch and wait for his biscuit.

But this morning, Challah didn’t come.

Sharon waited and waited. Her tea went cold.

She folded her arms, then refolded them. “Not like him,” she muttered. With her cane tapping in rhythm, she marched toward the living room where her iPhone was dinging. At 75, she still walked with purpose.

The Rosenbergs sent Sharon a text, “Emergency trip to Charleston. Be back Sunday. Challah is in the house. Our pet sitter, Peggy, will be coming to take care of him.”

Later that morning, there came frantic knocking at the door. It was the pet sitter. Challah had escaped from the yard. After a few calls to some neighbors, it was clear—no one had seen him.

By noon, Sharon had swapped her floral flip-flops for slip-on sneakers and printed a photo of Challah with the caption, “Have you seen this sweet soul?” She walked through the neighborhood stapling flyers to telephone poles with the precision of a former librarian cataloging lost knowledge.

The neighborhood buzzed with concern. Children shouted his name in the backyards. The coffee shop posted his photo. Sharon’s teenage grass cutter promised to check yards and overgrown fences. But evening came, and still no Challah.

That night, Sharon sat on her front steps, a biscuit in hand and lilacs nodding in the breeze. “Old boy,” she whispered, “where did you go?”

On the second day, Sharon ventured farther. She mapped every yard within a five-block radius and tucked an extra leash into her pocket. At the edge of the woods a few blocks away, she paused. Most folks whispered about foxes or other dangers in there. However, Challah had a curious nose and a fearless heart.

“Damn it,” she muttered, and ducked under the brambles.

The woods were dappled in golden sunlight and shadows. Birds cawed overhead, and a squirrel launched a pinecone near her boots. Sharon moved carefully, scanning each thicket, calling “Challah.”

Then—movement.

A rustle near a hollowed log. Sharon’s heart leapt.

“Challah?” she called gently.

A white tail flicked, but it was only a deer, which blinked indignantly and darted away. Still, she pressed forward.

By dusk, scratched and tired, Sharon sat on a mossy stone. Her bones ached, but her resolve hadn’t dimmed. Challah wasn’t just a neighbor’s dog. He was a ritual. The keeper of a thousand quiet mornings.

From the trees came a whimper.

She stood too fast, stumbling slightly.

Another whimper. Then a bark—faint, but unmistakable.

She followed the sound, calling “Challah!” Down a ravine she went. There was Challah, tangled in a mass of brambles, one paw stuck awkwardly in a tree root. His fur was matted, but his tail thumped the earth with frantic joy.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she choked, tears welling as she bent to pet his tangled fur.

It took patience—and her emergency leash—but eventually she freed him. Challah licked her face gratefully, as if to say, About time you found me.

The way home was slow but triumphant. Challah limped, and Sharon’s knee threatened mutiny, but neighbors appeared like magic—word had spread. Teenagers offered piggyback rides. Someone brought a towel and carried Challah. Mrs. Dailey from the garden club ran out with a turkey sandwich (for Sharon) and a chicken breast (for the dog).

When the Rosenbergs returned on Sunday, they found Challah curled on Sharon’s porch, snoring like a contented lion. They wept, promised tighter gates and gifted Sharon a bouquet of yellow roses with a note: “To the Heroine of Pikesville.”

But Sharon waved it off. “He just needed someone to come looking,” she said.

The next morning, Challah returned to his usual spot, eyes half-closed, biscuit balanced delicately between his paws. Sharon sipped her tea and leaned back in her chair.

And for a moment, everything seemed a little brighter.

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