A Rescue Like Me

Ten years ago, my daughter's long-held wish came true.

For nearly half her life, Chloe had been begging, pleading and praying for a dog. Her pleas were passionate.

And persistent.

Over time, I began to crack. Usually I'm the tough nut. But when it comes to living, breathing, warm-blooded creatures (great and small), I'm a marshmallow. A sweet, gooey, mushy mess.

Steve, however, held firm. No dog. Our first dog, Roxy, was neurotic, epileptic, an incessant barker... and beggar. Steve has not yet fully recovered.

In sixth grade, Chloe wrote a persuasive essay detailing all the emotional, physical, and mental health benefits of pet ownership including (but not limited to):

• Companionship

• Physical activity

• Sense of security

• Social-emotional development

• Therapeutic support

• Stress relief

• Longevity

With a flourish, she presented her paper (grading rubric attached) to her dad. Her well-researched, compelling essay had earned an A+ (and heartfelt sympathy) from Mrs. Dalton.

But Steve was unmoved.

Despite this apparent setback, Chloe was undeterred. She penned a long letter to her dad and me informing us that depriving a young person of a pet is practically child abuse. (She may or may not have forwarded a copy to DCFS.)

Steve - still - did not budge.

I, on the other hand, had warmed to the idea. Not only that, but I'd been frequenting Petfinder.com searching adorable (housebroken) dogs. And sweet-faced (fully vaccinated) puppies. Preferably small/medium-sized. Non-shedding. Within 50 miles.

To cover my tail/trail, I cleared my browsing history daily... and didn't breathe a word to my kid. Or my man.

Meanwhile, Chloe upped her game. In addition to impassioned pleas and strategically-placed paperbacks (Shiloh, Sounder, My Dog Skip...), she pitched the "household assistance" a dog could provide:

Dogs are excellent mood boosters. And crumb cleaner-uppers. And stranger-danger detectors.

The girl had a point.

I became her ally in the Canine-for-Chloe Campaign. And I pulled out all the stops:

I slyly reminded her of the therapy dogs that visited when she was hospitalized with double pneumonia one Christmas. Those daily doggie snuggles from a Lhasa Apso named Halle Berry and Charlie, a lovable Labradoodle, were the highlight of her stay in the PICU. Well, that and our New Year's Eve party in her room, which featured a screening of "Cars 2" and a coloring contest. And cupcakes. Just a little sugar buzz to accompany the IV drip.

(My highlight was her discharge.)

During that terrifying, death-defying week, I witnessed again the astonishing restorative properties of two simple things:

Prayer.

And puppy love.

Chloe fell hard for those animal therapist/canine convalescent caregiver/furry friends. And as a result, the pursuit of her own true (tail-wagging) love became her singular focus and fixation. She became obsessed with all things pooch-related.

You might say she was like a dog with a bone.

(Sorry. That was uncalled for. Bad metaphor. Just... no.)

She hounded us incessantly.

(Oops. I did it again. Apologies to you... and Britney Spears.)

It wasn't long before my Petfinder search filters yielded a nearly perfect match.  Eight- to ten-week-old puppies, medium-size, non-shedding, currently being fostered by Tails of Hope Rescue. Chloe locked eyes with a brown-eyed boy named Simba (one of 9 puppies in the "Lion King litter." Obvs.) It was love at first sight.

Even Steve - the last and lone holdout - couldn't resist. How could he? Look at this face…

And next thing we knew, we were driving to Cincinnati (119 miles, but who's counting?) for a puppy meet-and-greet. Less than three hours later, we had officially adopted our lab/beagle/hound who knows what else (read: mix/mutt/mongrel) puppy, purchased $327 worth of pet supplies, and decided that his rescue-given name (which we had originally planned to change to Dash) fit him perfectly.

In less than 180 minutes, little Simba had already become our prince.

Puppies have a way of doing that, I guess. And our boy was no exception. He wiggled and wagged his way into our hearts... and before he finished his first bag of grain-free, protein-plus puppy chow, we were completely smitten. His unconditional love, endless affection, and unwavering devotion made the bad days bearable and the good days even better. And his protective instincts and sensitivity made us feel safer and more at ease. It didn't matter that he doubled his "estimated" full-grown size. And shed like crazy. (What can I say? Love is blind. And covered in dog hair.)

Not long after we adopted Simba, I started noticing the bumper stickers of fellow doggie devotees:

Wag more. Bark less.

You had me at WOOF.

My dog is smarter than your honor student.

The more people I meet, the more I like my dog. 

It was ME. I let the dogs out.

(My personal favorite.)

Then one day, I saw a cute paw-print bumper sticker that read:

Who rescued who?

Grammatical error notwithstanding, it made me smile. Because it was true.

We had rescued Simba from a wire crate where he had no freedom and a precarious future. We "sprung" him from a steel trap... and spared him a (likely) lethal injection. But within a few short weeks, our sweet, playful pup had all but returned the favor. Simba rescued us from all kinds of things (sadness, stress, strain and duress). In all kinds of ways. (Fetch, sit, snuggle, lick... wag, wag, wag.)

Why? Who knows. Maybe it's just animal instinct. Or maybe it's bone-a-fide ;) gratitude. Or perhaps, a little of both.

Who hasn't been captivated by a gripping account of a daring search-and-rescue? True stories of gutsy rescuers and grateful survivors glue us to our screens and give us hope. They make our hearts pound and our spirits soar.

And they make us realize... that we all need to be rescued somehow.

From danger or sickness or strife or fear.

From loneliness, uneasiness, or emptiness.

From adversity.  

And sometimes... from others. (Or ourselves.)

It wasn't until we adopted our puppy that I realized the stark truth about my own life.

I'm a rescue too.

Once upon a time, I was beholden, bound, doomed. And in dire need of a Rescuer.

So I greet you with the great words: grace and peace! We know the meaning of those words because Jesus Christ rescued us from this evil world we're in by offering himself as a sacrifice for our sins. God's plan is that we all experience that rescue. Glory to God forever! Oh, yes! (Galatians 1:4, The Message)

Oh, yes... indeed. I am more grateful than ever to the One who rescued me.

And overjoyed that, once upon a time, my dear girl got her wish.

Grace and peace and puppy love,

Wendy

P.S. I don't know if all dogs go to heaven. But I sure hope ours does. (Yours too.)