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came through the door asking if she’d had any luck, and she had to say no.
    By March, they’d been back in Fort Wayne six weeks and Nancy was in despair. She dreaded hearing from Wyoming that Snoopy had died out there, never knowing how hard they’d tried to get her back. One day, having tried everything else, she telephoned the Fort Wayne Department of Animal Control and told them the story.
    “I don’t know what I can do to help,” the director, a man named Rod, said when she’d finished. “But I’ll tell you this: I’m sure going to try.”
    A week later, he too had exhausted the obvious approaches. Snoopy was too frail to be shipped in the unheated baggage compartment of a plane. A professional animal transporting company wanted $665 to bring her east. Shipping companies refused to be responsible for her. Rod hung up from his latest call and shook his head. “I wish the old-time Pony Express was still in existence,” he remarked to his assistant, Skip. “They’d have brought the dog back.”
    “They’d have passed her along from one driver to another. It would’ve been a Puppy Express,” Skip joked.
    Rod thought for a minute. “By golly, that may be the answer.” He got out a map and a list of animal shelters in Wyoming, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois and Indiana, and began telephoning. Could he enlist enough volunteers to put together a Puppy Express to transport Snoopy by stages across five states? Would enough people believe it mattered so for a little seventeen-year-old dog to be reunited with her family that they’d drive a hundred or so miles west to pick her up and another hundred or so miles east to deliver her to the next driver?
    A week later, Rod called the Topps. “The Puppy Express starts tomorrow. Snoopy’s coming home!” he told Nancy jubilantly.
    The animal control officer in Rock Springs had volunteered to be Snoopy’s first driver. When he pulled up outside the clinic, the vet bundled Snoopy in a sweater and carried her to the car. “She’s got a cold, “ the vet said, “so keep her warm. Medicine and instructions and the special food for her kidney condition are in the shopping bag.”
    She put the little dog on the seat and held out her hand. Snoopy placed her paw in it. “You’re welcome, old girl,” the vet said, shaking it. “It’s been a pleasure taking care of you. The best of luck. Get home safely!”
    They drove the 108 miles to Rawlings, Wyoming. There they rendezvoused with a woman named Cathy, who’d come 118 miles from Casper to meet them. Cathy laughed when she saw Snoopy. “What a funny-looking little serious creature you are to be traveling in such style,” she teased. “Imagine, private chauffeurs across five states.” But that evening, when she phoned Rod in Indiana to report that Snoopy had arrived safely in Casper, she called her “a dear old girl,” and admitted that, “If she were mine, I’d go to a lot of trouble to get her back, too.”
    Snoopy went to bed at Cathy’s house a nondescript little brown-and-white dog, very long in the tooth, and woke the next morning a celebrity. Word of the seventeen-year-old puppy with a bad cold who was being shuttled across mid-America to rejoin her family had reached the news media. After breakfast, dazed by the camera but, as always, polite, Snoopy sat on a desk at the Casper Humane Society and obligingly cocked her head and showed off the new leash that was a gift from Cathy. And that night, in Fort Wayne, the Topps were caught between laughter and tears as they saw their old girl peer out at them from the television set.
    With the interview behind her, Snoopy set out for North Platte, 350 miles away, in the company of a humane society official in Casper who had volunteered for the longest single hop on Snoopy’s journey. The two of them stopped overnight and arrived in North Platte at noon the next day. More reporters and cameramen awaited them, but as soon as she’d been interviewed, Snoopy was back on