Author’s note: I originally published this piece on Red State Rant, for a lack of a better place, while I was still a slick-sleeved patrolman. It struck a chord with some of the online blogs and got picked up and passed around a bit. Still hurts to remember this one. I did okay handling incidents involving most anything, but when it came to kids as victims I didn’t do so well.

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A couple of days ago I had the unfortunate task of taking part in a search for a 4 year old boy that went missing from his home. My role in the search was that of a minor player on the periphery of events, canvassing a nearby neighborhood.  Even though I’d been instructed to remain in service for other calls, I just couldn’t stay away.

Here is the story from our local paper, the Gainesville (Ga) Times.

While the newspaper story is factual and adequately relates the tragedy, for me it fails to convey the overwhelming feeling of desperation that continued to grow as the minutes ticked by. Radio channels were cleared, alerts were made by phone, media, and in person. Numerous agencies responded. Officers were called off of other duties and training to assist. Helicopters, fixed-wing planes, boats, and K9 trackers all raced to the scene. The sense of urgency was palpable.

But the telling moment came when a fellow deputy radioed that he had located the boy’s Cocker Spaniel on a boat dock. The dog had not left that dock until someone arrived. You can choose to believe it or not believe it, but I’m a dog man, and I’m telling you- dogs know. That little dog knew.

We continued the area search, but I had a terrible, sinking feeling. As quickly as the dive team could assemble, they entered the water at the dock, where they found the boy in 12 feet of water. EMT’s immediately began attempts to revive him, and a massive effort to block intersections through town resulted in a parting of traffic like that of the Red Sea, allowing the ambulance and its escort units to race to the waiting emergency room at unprecedented speed. But all efforts failed. He’d simply been in the water too long. Alex Taylor, dressed in his gray shorts, green t-shirt, and Thomas the Train sneakers was dead at 4 years old.

Folks, I’m not gonna lie, and I’m not ashamed of it. When that went out over the radio, I parked the patrol car behind a church and cried. I suddenly had an almost uncontrollable desire to rush to the daycare center where my own 2½ year old son was probably out on the playground enjoying the beautiful spring weather, just to make sure he was okay. I couldn’t imagine losing him that way. I’m sure what that family is going through is incomprehensible to someone who hasn’t experienced it. But there wasn’t much time for sorrow. Soon the radio crackled to life and I was back to work.

That night I went home and hugged my son like it might just be the last chance I ever had to do so. I told him that I love him, and we played on the floor together until bedtime. After he was safe in his bed asleep, I sat on the floor in the hallway outside of his room and wept shamelessly. God keep our children.