I Ran To The Rescue With Love
Last year, on January 14, I had a volunteer induction to go to—but that morning, everything seemed to go awry:
I woke up late, missing my alarm.
A painter for the apartment was running late, so I had to wait for him, making myself even later.
For breakfast, I tried to make a smoothie, but the blender broke, spilling everything.
When I got in my car, my phone switched to SOS mode, so my maps weren’t working for the 40-minute drive to the shelter in a new, unfamiliar city.
I was in a frazzle and could have easily just left it or waited for the next induction. But I remember feeling this urgency to make it work, declaring to myself aloud:
“I am getting to this fucking shelter and walking at least one dog today if it’s the last thing I do.”
And that is exactly what I did.
I was the only one to volunteer trial-walking that day—a big, strong mastiff named Bailey.
I remember the feeling of getting home, slipping on my fresh volunteer purple t-shirt, trying it on, and smiling at myself in the mirror.
Three days later, on the 17th, I had my first “shift.”
Since then, I have spent countless hours in that little shelter.
What started as twice a week, five hours each shift, turned into five or sometimes six—on a few occasions, even seven—days a week. Eight hours most shifts. Morning to closing. I lived and breathed that place. It’s all I wanted to do. Anywhere else felt like being ‘on the way’ to those dogs. The cats inside, and even when we had a small duckling, a pig who loved mango and pineapple, and a few hilarious goats.
I know the drive there like the back of my hand now. I can do the routines—cleans, walks, and feeds—with my eyes closed. I’ve gone through a couple of purple volunteer shirts since then.
Even when I’m not there, I check the time and think about the dogs.
7:20—I know they’re not alone now for long. 12:45—They’re getting lunch. 3:40—They’ll be left soon, and I hope they all had a nice day out.
In August 2020, my dog Ziva died so suddenly. After moving states in November, I especially felt—after lockdown—that I needed a new routine, somewhere I could go. Not just to be around people again, but to channel my energy into something meaningful.
Physical energy, yes, but also emotional energy.
Being around dogs who needed love and attention felt like the right place. And being there has made me so happy—spending all day with up to 14 different dogs, with no agenda, no goal other than to make sure they were okay.
It’s been tiring, all on my own account. But that purpose, through pure intention, is so fulfilling.
Volunteering has given me so much, though the loss of control in the external environment has taken a lot too.
It’s not easy. Being around, witnessing, and holding space for all the cruelty animals go through at the hands of those who should have been their guardians.
It’s not easy driving home, feeling like you couldn’t do more that day. Some weeks, adoptions flow, and relief comes. Other weeks, surrenders come in waves, and you’re reminded that no matter where you are, no matter the species, the work in animal welfare is never truly done.
That truth is not an easy one to hold.
A lot of anger and hurt harbors in that reality. But so does a lot of solace. And that duality, I think, is worth it in the right context.
Providing protection, shelter, and second (third, fourth, fifth) chances is worth it when you’re surrounded by like-minded humans—those who advocate for the voiceless and actively push for necessary change in industries that still aren’t working in the name of animal welfare.
There is kinship in those who share your fierce protectiveness. There’s a lot of healing when someone says, “I know, it is unfair.”
I am so grateful for all I have learned and for every other volunteer and visitor I have met over the last year. Every single hour has felt worth it.
A month after I first started, I began a list of every dog I met. I stopped after a while because there were too many—but rest assured, they’re all embedded in my mind.
One dog, in particular, I was really bonded to—Alice—was adopted by a family. She was a German Shepherd and had been surrendered by a younger girl about my age. I remember seeing her walk back to her car after dropping Alice off, and my heart ached watching her lean her head on her elbows against the car and weep so hard her shoulders shook.
I didn’t always know the reason for surrendering. People didn’t always say, or they seemed to have some story. All I knew was that Alice was really well looked after. She was friendly and so loving. Maybe she bonded with me because I was familiar to her. I couldn’t even walk out on the grounds if another volunteer had her—she’d break loose from the lead and bolt toward me.
She was unlucky once when she was adopted out to the wrong people. They weren’t at all who they said they were, and Alice was one of the few dogs whose return I was relieved to see.
The next time, it was with good people. Older, with a Malamute who would be her new, very big brother. I remember standing in the parking lot watching them load her into the car, and I cried. Please, God, let this work out.
They seemed to be her people, and a week later, they filed for her adoption. They said she was naughty in the yard and kept digging, and I remember speaking to her telepathically, saying, Alice, you better be a good girl. These are your people, okay? Get out of this place. I love you, but I never want to see you in here again.
One day, her new mother returned to the shelter. I recognized her immediately and froze. One of my then-turned colleagues walked by and said, “Relax, she’s just dropping off old toys and beds.”
As I scooped food into the bowls for feeds, I noticed her walking toward me in the noisy kennel. My heart was pounding.
I still cry when I remember how she approached me and said, “You’re the girl who took care of our Alice, weren’t you?”
She turned her phone to show me a photo of Alice curled up, happy, on their couch.
Any worry or sadness I felt that day melted away. Because I knew Alice was okay.
I remember looking out at all the kennels. There was a dog in every one. We were full house. Overwhelmed. But seeing Alice in her new home, my girl, I suddenly felt a shock of energy for the rest of the day.
All of these dogs were once Alice.
And that was reason enough to keep going.
There was also another dog who I have lost sleep over and will probably continue to for the rest of my life. It was rainy season in QLD, and it was a particularly wet day when I noticed a new arrival had come in. He wasn’t available for adoption because he was a behavioral dog—not aggressive, just very scared. He was all black, quite dainty, with big golden, kind eyes.
He was so thin, and his whole body shook in fear. He had come in as a surrender, and I could bet those people weren’t very kind. His name was Dasher. The manager had said, “Isn’t he sweet? He looks like one of the reindeer, with his floppy sideways ears and sweet snout.” I spent most of that day checking in on Dasher. He had developed this awful allergic reaction between his paw fingers—it must have been itchy because it was so red, and the wetness of the air and outside didn’t help. I carried a cream we got for him in my pocket and went in and sat with him in intervals just to give him some love and gently apply the ointment between his toes. I’d take him out to the driest parts of the yard just so he could get out, even if it meant reapplying the ointment five times over.
He’d lick my hand every now and again but mostly stared into the air and shivered. I held his little body, whispered sweet things, and kissed his wet fur. He was gone in the next few days—some people had come to pick him up to foster him. I was relieved.
It was maybe a month and a half or two months later when I noticed a car in the parking lot and saw some of the other staff unloading a black dog. I was immediately shocked. The people were older and looked rough, and I assumed it was a surrender. The dog was so thin—ribcage out, tail between its legs. The staff didn’t have much communication and seemed focused on bringing in this poor dog. I had been busy with another dog, so when I got back inside the kennel, I noticed one of the back ones was taken—the ones with more cover around the gate, where we put the more aggressive dogs. I noticed a black figure jumping up and down incessantly, barking, hysterical.
I felt a sick kind of feeling in my stomach as I tried to peer my head over and see the dog. I didn’t approach the door because I didn’t want to startle him more. I hated when they were so upset, so beside themselves.
I knew it was Dasher.
He was so far gone, had been failed for longer than he could bear—and twice over. He was signed off. Many shelters, like ours, didn’t have the resources, funding, or space.
I cried until my eyes couldn’t open in one of the yards that day. I was so angry the world burned red. I thought about the day we spent together. How gentle I was with his paws. How I wanted to remind the fosters to reapply the ointment enough. How I never got a good look at them. How I wanted to look them in the eyes then if I could. And what I would have done had all laws in the world not existed. No, what I would have done even if it meant jail time.
I shut down that week. The only thing that powered me back up was all the other dogs always looking at me as I entered the kennel—tails wagging, eyes bright, desperate. All the loss only made me love more, deeper. But my god, does it make your heart tired. And it puts a different meaning to feeling fear seeing a dog drive off with strangers who seem kind—but you just don’t know. I started feeling like a liar when I’d whisper to them to trust me. I started praying instead, and I’d drive home in silence, thinking. It was agonising.
I mention Dasher’s sad story because there were at least 20 more just like him. Failed. Where more should have been done. Where I fantasized about murder when I kissed the dogs’ scarred faces—victims of dog fighting rings—and the dogs they held as bait, just as traumatized, now looking up at me with love. And the humans responsible just getting away with it, and abusing us while they’re at it, too.
And then, there are angels. And the very lucky ones. A dog who had three too many names and listened to none comes to mind every time I see the rain outside. She had been surrendered and brought back at least twice now, which means she was skating on thin ice, if I put it lightly.
She was gorgeous. A staffy mix, a pink nose you wanted to blow raspberries on, the sweetest eyes that made your heart melt, but an anxious attachment with a bark that made you wonder what animal that really is when left alone. I got it. We all understood. She’d been left alone too many times, for too long, and she was communicating that she was scared. She was saying, please don’t leave me. She needed time, and company, and patience.
I took this sweet lady out three times as much as the others because she struggled in the kennel so badly. Even when she saw all the other dogs, even when I was hovering around there all day anyway, it didn’t matter.
I remember when she had gone out on foster. I was so relieved—we all were. And then the day they brought her back, unable to cope, the afternoon we had to lock up for the end of the day, the look on her face and the sound of her wails made me cry so hard I had to stop on the highway driving home because it felt like my heart was caving in. I couldn’t wait to get back to the shelter the next morning.
Every day went by, and I made sure she had the best day every day. She was really good at soccer—like dribbling the ball and stealing it from me in sneaky ways good. We’d play in the rain, pouring, with thunder rolling, both of us completely soaked. She just loved playing.
She’d stand in the middle of the yard, content, breath racing, tired, and tilt her head up to the sky as it rained, closing her eyes. Taking in the world. I remember thinking about Dasher. How he deserved to feel that way, and this love.
Some time went by, and one day I realized she had been picked up, on foster. I knew if this one didn’t work out, it wouldn’t be good. I prayed. She had two weeks with them, and they had said they’d really try. I never got to see the people, but I had no choice but to trust.
One afternoon, I was finishing up walking rounds, exhausted. Then, in the corner of my eye, I saw her walking with one of the staff on lead. I immediately felt sick. I walked to her and asked what happened and why she was back. And the sweet staff member, an older lady who only came in every now and again, said, as casual as ever, "Oh, darling, she’s been adopted. They’re just buying her some new leads inside."
I think I made such a high-pitched guttural noise she thought something was wrong with me.
The couple walked out, and I asked if I could talk to them and say goodbye to her because I really loved her. They were so happy to chat and said how much they enjoy her. They said she was doing okay and that someone was mostly home, so she had to learn she wasn’t being left alone anymore. I kept telling them to please give her time.
I remember the man asked me if there was anything about her I could tell them—things she liked—because they were stopping at some shops on the way home. I beamed and told them how she loves soccer. She loves a ball. They said they wouldn’t have known because she didn’t pay any mind to tennis balls. I said no, it must be a bigger one, and that she’s really good at it. You’ll see, I promised.
Before I said goodbye, the woman stood by me, looking sweetly at her. I told her that this dog truly had such a kind soul and that I was so happy for her. They had named her Kaycee. A sweet name for a sweet girl.
The woman said that yes, she could see in Kaycee’s eyes that she just needed love—wanted love. Deserved love. As they loaded her in the car, before the woman got in, she grabbed my arm and said to me, "Oh! And you wanna know the damnedest thing? The other day, I was in the kitchen looking out the window to the yard, and she was standing there, in the hard, pouring rain, face lifted to the sky, just taking it all in—have you ever seen a dog do that?"
I drove home that afternoon with the windows down, music blasting, tears hot on my cheeks, and I didn’t know if it was from joy, relief, remembering, or grieving. Maybe all four.
I’ve had so many dreams set in the shelter—both funny and nauseatingly terrifying.
I am extra grateful to have shared those moments and dreams with one person in particular who became one of my best friends this last year.
Getting to know someone, living the moments together in the shelter, made the heaviness feel lighter. A solidarity, both within the shelter and outside of it.
And through all of the laughter and exhaustion, ironically, in the end, having someone who could reassure me that it was okay—and perhaps even necessary—to eventually leave, made all the difference.
I truly do feel that the timing of my life has been divine. If I could go through every small synchronicity and sign from the universe that told me, “You’re going the right way,” I’d be writing forever.
I am learning the sweetness of trusting my intuition—taking actionable steps of change while also surrendering to their uncertainty.
Trusting that things will unfold, that I am held wherever I land.
Because always, on the other side of fear, there is growth.
Every part of the last year—the ways I’ve grown, the connections I’ve made, the collection of lessons I now carry—I can see so clearly now. They were meant to take on a new form.
After all, you are entirely up to you. You set the tone for your chosen journeys.
With that said, I’ll be following this routine for a couple more weeks.
Until I latch the last gate.
Give the last peanut butter kong.
And move away next month.
But today, I wanted to commemorate January 17th.
To tell past me—I am so proud of her. For making it to the induction that morning.
And to say that up until now, I truly have given the best and most I could here.
And that it is okay to depart from what feels like an era of my life—with a gentle sort of ruthlessness.
⸻
In any case, I’ll be seeking places to go.
Places to help, love on, and protect animals until the day I leave the earth.
This last year? Just a blink of an eye. One piece of a much bigger picture.
I remind myself often: This is all just for now.
And when the time for leaving comes—when the familiar disperses on the plain—it makes driving away all the more bittersweet.
Because this really is all just for now. And there is always, always more to come.
My advice?
Go. Go. Go.
Arriving, leaving—no matter if you wake up late, no matter if you’re unsure how you’ll get there or what will follow.
Trust your gut and vow:
“I am going to fucking do this thing if it’s the last thing I do.”
P.S. PLEASE consider adoption, fostering, or encouraging others to do the same. Donate, assist—every little bit really, really helps.
Clarissa Pinkola Estés wrote that “Our planet’s wilderness disappears as the understanding of our own wild nature fades.”
River Phoenix sang, “When you run to the rescue with love, peace will follow.”
Mother Theresa said, “In moments lacking peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to one another.”
Above all, be kind to every creature. While we’re here, let’s try our best—in whatever most gentle, brave way we can.
