Every Dog is a Rescue Dog

Plenty of good folks rescue dogs who otherwise might not make it, but no matter where you get, buy, or find your dog, it will rescue you. That’s just a dog’s nature. They show up with the innate yearning to connect, please, and love you, so who’s rescuing who here? 

During the pandemic lockdown, I lived on a small ranch in Colorado,  in a cozy little house by the barn where I got reduced rent in exchange for caretaking horses. I also built an online coaching business for my former students who were losing their minds (as we all were). The ranch owners lived up the hill, but remember how SOLITARY life was then? Although I had a virtual business, there were no coffee shops or libraries where I could at least be around other humans. I was grateful that I wasn’t trapped in hell with an awful partner or roommate, but I just needed another living, breathing being at my side.

Enter Onxy. 

I wanted an old black lab and searched online until I found him three hours away at a shelter in Denver. When I saw the picture of this ten-year-old elder,  it was game over. This clumsy guy had a gray beard, big belly, and crooked smile, and I was thoroughly smitten. When I drove to Denver to bring him to the ranch, the staff told me he’d run away from his people three times and was found wandering the city streets. I'm not sure what was going on with his humans, but after three strikes, you’re out, and the shelter would not return him to his city folks. He climbed into the backseat of my Honda, poked his head between the two front seats, and proceeded to pant and slobber heavily for three hours.

Onyx took to ranch life like a duck to water. The poor dog was never meant for the city, and I get why he fled. My life became better the minute Onyx made himself at home - lying on the deck in the sun, stretching out in the living room on an old braided rug, snuggling next to me while I meditated, and farting with abandon. Honestly, I’d forgotten how bad an old dog fart smelled, but it was like a field of flowers to me to have this big old sentient being breathing peacefully beside me.

Man, we had fun. He’d trot proudly beside me as I went out to do horse chores, bothering the herd (who ignored this pesky wanna be) and eating horseshit like it was ice cream. We were on 35 acres, so he was free to explore, and that he did, once bouncing happily across the pasture with a big femur bone in his mouth (an old stallion had been put down in the field a few years before and left Onyx this treasure). He rarely left my side, but when he did, I knew he’d come back because I loved him, and it was mutual, and there was nothing to run away from.

The snow in Steamboat is formidable—about 300 inches a year—so I’d put on my cross-country skis and roam around, with a lumpy black lab jumping hurdles through the drifts. This boy was 70 years old in human terms, so I was a little worried that he was playing too hard. Was I hurting him?

“Nah,” my vet said, “Let him live his life. He’s on the homestretch, so just let it be good.”

It was. It was a beautiful six months for and with my boy. His mere presence brought me peace, a sense of security, and comfort. Dogs do that just by existing.

Black labs have a weakness in their hips, so he moved more slowly by April. By spring, some school programs were opening up again, and I took a job working in a middle school. I came home one day and found him lying on the living room rug, looking up at me with watery eyes. He couldn’t get up. I managed to get him onto his front paws, then helped him outside by holding up his rump, but I knew we were at the end. He was in pain; he couldn’t play or chase the horses anymore (or run away when they chased him). We hobbled back indoors and I called the nearest animal hospital, making an appointment for the following day. We slept on the floor together that night.

My darling youngest son, Joey, came by the next morning and helped me lift Onyx into the back of my car. Our journey together was ending. His last six months on earth may have been the best in his ten years. It was a reciprocal rescue because his presence provided that warm, quiet companionship you can only find with a good dog. 

Onyx rescued me from the echo chamber of pandemic loneliness and did it in the true measure of canine comfort, without saying a word. We watched him fall peacefully asleep, straight into the arms of whatever is next. Yep, I may have saved him from a life on the streets, but as the planet burned with fever, he saved me from despair. Rest in peace, Onyx. I’ll see you on the other side, and yes, I’ll bring a treat.