By Solana Kline, [lifelong animal adoption advocate and honorary four-legger]
This morning is crisp, we’ve been waiting for this, Betts and me. It is early November of 2018, and the oppressive Reno Summer broil is coming to a close (but they say it’s a dry heat, right?). We gallop out the door for our usual morning jog straight from the house into U.S. Forest Service land, through the ponderosa and high alpine planty-communities, snagging a newly ripe apple from the yard on our way out.
The trail carries us up into the South side of Slide Mountain, decomposed granite shifts under our feet and the vanilla perfume of the Summer Jeffries Pines is winding down. Betts sprints off ahead squirreling and I smile. Here we are, running in the Sierra Nevadas, not a human in sight.
Me and Betts have been on our own as a pack for the past three years, I never thought to add to the pack, we were both super content beasting around as gal pals. But, for some reason, just this morning, I can’t shake the pull to go to Reno Humane Society, one of those little bolts from the universe that you just can’t ignore.
And I did try to ignore it, mid-PhD and recovering from adrenal failure, this seemed like the absolute worst time to get a new pup. And I’m not much of a window shopper when it comes to adopted hounds, I’d bring them all home if I could.
One day I’ll have 100 acres to bring them all home to, like that South American dog rescue, Territorio de Zaguates (territoriodezaguates.com). Let ‘em all roam free with adopted tortoises and wild horses and donkeys, and any other non-humans who deserve to be wild and belong to a weirdo diverse pack filled with joy, love, and delicious snackies!
But today, trotting through the forest with Betty, I knew I had to go to Reno Humane Society, I didn’t know why and I didn’t need to, it was intuition.
Me and Betts walked into the doggie kennels, all concrete and metal, no windows, pups nervously shifting around and whining, tense energy filling the space between these wonderful wagglers waiting for homes. The second me and Mickey made eye contact I knew exactly why we were there.
Each pup had a good-sized indoor run with a barrier to retreat behind. And that is precisely where Mickey’s big boxer eyes and squished wrinkly forehead were peeking out from. He couldn’t handle the ruckus of the collective rebellion of his fellow block-mates and wouldn’t emerge from behind the wall.
I asked the volunteer on staff if I could meet with him. They brought Mickey in to meet me in a tiny psych-ward-esque room. I offered him toys and snacks, sat on the floor, and he wouldn’t come near me.
Even from across the room, he felt familiar, like his soul and mine and Ms. B’s had lived many lifetimes together, had many intergalactic adventures.
I asked if we could go outside. The volunteer helping us hesitated but finally agreed to yard time. As soon as we stepped into the sunshine, little terrier Betts ran up to Mickey, jumped and spun around near his haunches to get him to play.
His ears and body posture were relaxed now that we were outside. He dipped to play, looked around for assurance, but was afraid to engage. Play was new to Mickey’s world. Little did he know it would become his daily existence. I knew he was our packmate, and I adopted him right then and there.
The desk volunteer filled me in: Mickey’s conditions had been reported to the City of Reno, he was an abandoned junkyard dog, starved and chained, triggered by guns and fire and smoke. I knew that he was soon to be healed by nature and love and play.
As I was filling out his adoption paperwork, a woman walked over to me.
“Hi, I’m Cathy. Are you here to adopt Bowser?” Hope and relief filled her eyes. Bowser was Mickey’s name back then in his jailhouse days.
“I am. I just knew immediately, and so did Betty.” I looked down at Betts, her gaze transfixed on the door that Mickey would come through to join us, tail waggling in anticipation.
“Oh, thank goodness you’re here, I’m so happy. Bowser has been here for over a year. I’m a volunteer here and have been coming everyday to sit with him outside on the bench, and give him hamburgers and bacon. I kept telling him to be brave, to show his face, to let the people see him so he can be adopted.” She had been terrified of his possible fate if he didn’t get adopted soon. She stood with us as we waited for Mickey to be discharged.
I will never forget my first impression of him as he tentatively poked his head out following the volunteer’s lead—that fat pit noggin and endless smile, all the boxer wrinkles, and a wiggle butt just waiting to bust out the joy. He climbed right up into the back seat of the Tacoma and rested his head above my left shoulder, sniffing the Fall air and his newfound freedom.
We headed straight for the mountains. Mickey’s angel-volunteer auntie, Cathy, came along too, after picking up her own adopted hounds of course. Out there under the towering ponderosas, sprinting along the chortling Brown’s Creek, Mickey eased into nature, into himself. He filled with life and possibility and shine.
I think of Cathy often, how big of a difference she made for Mickey’s time in lock up, how his fate may have been different without her, how her loving presence brought him peace and calmed his nervous system, how she gave him a chance when everyone else had written him off.
A couple times a year, we text and send photos back and forth. I share Mickey’s progress and adventures with her, she sends her lab-mix rescues rolling around in her backyard fields. I am forever grateful for the time and love and energy and snackies that she shared with my boy, I am fully convinced that she saved his life.
There is a special place in the stars for humans who volunteer in the rescues, who foster the shelter animals, who donate to keep the lights on and tummies full in these four-legger halfway houses. Every single one of us can make a difference for the four-leggers in this world, every single day. We can all change the world for even just one four-legger, and that, is the beauty and magic of the unconditional kindness, compassion, and comradery that they offer us every day of their lives.
Until next time, adopt, volunteer, donate!
And, as always, happy tails and happy trails.
