Did we rescue her, or did she rescue us?
Note: This is not a beer story but a story nonetheless.
It was raining cats and dogs, so we took one home. That’s one way I explain how Lucy came into our lives, but the story involves more than a stormy afternoon in Montana. The shortest version is that we found a dog in the middle of nowhere, abandoned on a highway, running scared in traffic, scooped her up, and took her home with us. It wasn’t quite so simple. Here is the complete story of how we came to know the dog we named Lucy. It’s a tale of serendipity and a reminder to stand ready for whatever the universe has in store for you.
We set out for two weeks of roadtripping across Montana. The trip was multifaceted. We planned to spend some time in and around Glacier National Park to celebrate Kim’s birthday. Then, I had two writing assignments to take care of, one in Bozeman and the other in the Paradise Valley. Finally, our Montana adventure would conclude with a Jones family reunion near Livingston. That seemed like enough of an adventure, but then Lucy came along.
The Conversation
That first day, somewhere along the way from Seattle to Flathead Lake, Kim and I talked about getting another dog. The previous year, we’d lost both Kyra and Skye within six months of each other, which was emotionally taxing, but we agreed that it was probably time to bring another dog into our lives.
We also agreed that a rescue dog of some sort was the way to go. Kim mentioned that we should keep an eye on one of our local rescue organizations. We liked Rez Dog Rescue, which rescues and rehomes dogs from the Yakama Indian Reservation. Such organizations perform a much-needed service, but I wanted something more serendipitous. Careful what you ask for!
I didn’t know exactly what I meant, but I felt the situation would present itself to us and we’d just know it was right. By its very nature, you cannot plan on serendipity. You cannot expect it or even invite it. Serendipity is not Beetlejuice: saying its name three times has no effect. Anyway, that conversation ended. We continued down the road and soon forgot about the dog thing.
For our last day in Glacier National Park, we planned to take a boat across Two Medicine Lake and then hike back around the lake before leaving the park and heading to a town called Choteau. That plan was thwarted. We woke up to a weather forecast predicting heavy thunderstorms that afternoon, so we adjusted and went for a morning hike instead. Canceling the visit to Two Medicine Lake did more than change our timing and route; it changed our lives.
Bovine Freedom
On August 8th, 2016, we left the park and headed southeast on Highway 89, a small two-lane highway that winds from St. Mary to Browning. The highway rolls through open range land where unfenced cattle graze alongside the highway and motorists yield, by necessity, to the profundity of their unbound and immense bovine freedom. About 20 miles west of Browning, in the middle of nowhere, we came around a bend in the road and saw that traffic ahead had slowed to a creep. An accident? Maybe someone hit a cow?
Traffic was sparse, but we saw vehicles, including a full-sized semi truck, slowing down and maneuvering around something in the middle of the road. We quickly realized it was a dog. It was frantically rushing from one car to the next as they slowed to pass her. Our only thought was, “This dog is going to get killed if we don’t get it off the highway.”
Unlike every other car on the highway that afternoon, we pulled over and parked. Serendipitously, there was a small, wide spot alongside this bit of highway. The dog ran over to us as we got out of the car. She was medium-sized, with a short black and white coat. She was soaking wet because intermittent afternoon thunderstorms are an inescapable reality in the Rocky Mountains, especially in August. No collar. No tags. She was completely freaked out, scared, and confused. It took some time, but eventually she let me pet her. A few minutes later, she surrendered to me, lying down and rolling over.
I told Kim to get in the passenger seat, and I would hand her the dog. Our little Subaru Crosstrek was packed with camping and vacationing gear, so there was no room for a dog. I told Kim it would just have to sit at her feet or on her lap. I didn’t know how that would work, but it’s all we could do.
When I handed the dog to Kim, it immediately jumped off her lap, went between the seats, and climbed the mountain of gear. She made a place for herself atop the backpacks, sleeping bags, coolers, and other implements of camping and vacationing. She’d made a place for herself in our car. At this point, we had no clue that she’d also made a place for herself in our lives.
A Giraffe on Ice
For the first order of business, we needed to find a veterinarian to see if she had a microchip. Many miles later, as we continued across the Blackfeet Indian Reservation, Kim finally got a cellular signal a few miles outside Browning. I told her to find a vet in another town further down the road. I had my reasons. As we drove through Browning, stray dogs were wandering everywhere. A fact of life in certain parts of the world. (FYI, you don’t need to go gallivanting across the countryside to find your next Lucy: Rez Dog Rescue of Montana is happy to play matchmaker for you.)
We were headed for a vet’s office in Choteau, which was the nearest town, about an hour further down the road. At times, it was slow going as we navigated through some hellacious, scattered thunderstorms. When we arrived, they were expecting us. Kim went in and got a leash. It’s called a slip lead, and it’s a bit less humane than a regular collar and leash, but it was the best we could do.
She was still freaked out and wanted to bolt, but I pulled her across the parking lot and into the office. Her impolite behavior on the leash, or lack of leash training, was not surprising. Apparently, she’d never experienced hard-surface flooring. The office had linoleum floors. It was like watching a giraffe on ice. She splayed herself flat under a chair in the waiting room.
The exam revealed that she was basically healthy, though at 34 pounds, she was underweight. Her eventual optimum weight was 42 pounds, so she was quite spindly when we found her. There was no sign of a microchip. The vet guessed she was about 18 months old and saw no spay scar or tattoos to indicate that she’d been altered. Even though she didn’t appear pregnant, we performed an ultrasound. Impending puppies might be the reason someone abandoned her. “Our equipment is designed for cows and horses,” he said. “Don’t consider this conclusive, but I don’t see puppies.” Although it wouldn’t have changed our decisions, I thought we should know what we were getting into.
Finally, we had to give this dog a whole regimen of vaccinations. If we needed to board her in the coming days, the kennel would require an immunization record. Not that it mattered, but we were into this dog for a couple of hundred bucks before we knew if she was intentionally abandoned or just lost.
“Aren’t You Sweet”
We are not dog rustlers! In retrospect, given the remoteness of where we found her, it was pretty clear she’d been intentionally abandoned. She wasn’t injured, so she hadn’t jumped out of the back of a moving pickup truck, which the vet said is not uncommon in this part of the world. Still, we did not want to steal someone else’s dog, so before leaving the vet’s office, we asked if there were any agencies we should contact in case someone reported her missing. They smiled and said, “Aren’t you sweet?” Given where we’d found this dog, they probably thought, “Take a hundred dogs home with you, if you want.” They contacted the sheriff’s office to satisfy us and passed along our information. We called the nearest shelter and told them we’d found a dog. Again, “Aren’t you sweet?”
There were no pet stores in the tiny town of Choteau, but the local hardware store hooked us up with a collar and leash. Next, we had to deal with the hotel, which had a no-exceptions policy about pets, but did have dog kennels out back—basically, a row of 6’ x 10’ dog cells. We tried, but she would not—no how, no way—go into the pooch pokie. I was glad.
We were directed to the only other motel in town. It allowed dogs. It was an old, shabby, single-story motor lodge. It was run down, dirty, and not the kind of place we’d ever choose to stay. There was no choice. When I opened the door to the motel room, she charged straight for the bed, jumped on, and immediately went to sleep. I mean, right now! Collapsed. Asleep. Wholly and thoroughly exhausted.
We watched the 2016 Summer Olympics on a black-and-white TV, adjusting the rabbit ears as best we could but still not getting a clear picture. That did not seem weird at this point. It all made perfect sense. Black-and-white dog, black-and-white TV, and nothing was clear. The room had two queen beds. I fell asleep beside the dog, with my hand on her chest so she knew she wasn’t alone.
The next morning, I took our new travel companion for a walk. Which is to say, I restrained her as she tried to run away. She was still completely freaked out, but at least now she was rested. We wondered if she was potty-trained, but that really wasn’t an issue at this point. Nothing in, nothing out. She’d yet to eat or drink anything. Too freaked out. It would be days before she had a meal.
Our next destination was Bozeman, where we had plans to stay at a fancy new hotel, free of charge, because I was on assignment. We knew there was no way we could show up with a dog, especially one that was not ours and was completely crazy, so we were very fortunate to find a kennel that could take her off our hands for a couple of nights. Serendipitously, they had space for one dog and one dog only; otherwise, I don’t know what would have happened.
The next day, we returned to the kennel and took her for a walk. She was beginning to calm down, but still had no manners on the leash. The day after, we returned to pick her up and continue our road trip. By this time, we knew she was our dog. We named her Lucy. It was Kim’s choice, and it was a good one. The word Lucy is just one letter away from Lucky. Lucy was lucky she found us. We were lucky we found Lucy.
Paradise
Our next destination was Paradise Valley, where we stayed at Chico Hot Springs, a resort not too far from Yellowstone National Park’s north entrance. This was another assignment, and we’d be staying gratis because I was about to write a super-flattering story, which was easy. After all, Chico Hot Springs is amazing!
When we checked in, they were surprised to learn that we had a dog with us, which I told them was the plan all along. I knew that they allowed dogs in certain rooms, so it seemed like a harmless lie. And it was necessary. They gave us a room on the second floor of the 110-year-old main lodge. That is when we discovered that Lucy had never experienced stairs. We did not have time to teach her about stairs, and we didn’t want to make it too obvious that we were bringing a semi-feral dog into the hotel, so I dragged her up and down the stairs rather insistently. Sorry about that, Lucy.
First thing in the morning, I met with the manager because, as I said, I was working on a story. I felt like I should apologize for bringing a dog, but she beat me to it and apologized for putting us in the wrong room. We were not supposed to stay in one of the budget rooms with a shared bathroom down the hall. Instead, they moved us to a luxury cabin atop the hill overlooking the property and the entire Paradise Valley. They do not allow dogs in the cabins, but they made an exception.
Lucy was finally calming down. She was learning about us, and we were learning about her. She quickly realized that we had expectations. As pictured above, Kim and I began to work on the basics: sit, stay, come, and leash manners. She caught on quickly, but more importantly, it gave her doggie brain something to think about and helped calm her down. Then, Kim and Lucy took a nap on the lawn beneath the rustling leaves of a birch tree. She was becoming part of the family.
When we arrived at the Jones family reunion, the trip’s final leg, we had a story to tell and a new member of the clan to introduce. Lucy received a lot of attention and made a lot of friends at that two-day soiree. Again, an introduction to her new life with us. One thing that stood out was something one of my cousins said. Lucy bonded particularly well with Tom, a longtime rancher. He knew dogs well, especially working breed dogs, and radiated a lot of good doggie-boss energy. As he sat there patting Lucy on the head, he told us, with a high degree of certainty, “She’s going to be a good one.” Turns out, he was right.
We were able to offload some of our camping gear at the reunion and send it home with my brother, which made some room in the car for Lucy. The trip home included an overnight stay in Spokane. She behaved very well. If I remember correctly, Lucy finally ate something more than the occasional treat on that fifth night.
Welcome Home
When we got Lucy home, I took her to my long-trusted vet, who determined that she was probably about six or eight pounds underweight, which was a lot for a dog her size. We remedied that. Also, with a higher degree of certainty, we determined that she was not pregnant and decided to have her fixed. Turns out, that was unnecessary surgery; she’d already been altered. Sorry about that, Lucy.
That’s the basic story of how we found and adopted Lucy. From there, the story is not too unusual. We loved her, and she loved us. She was a good dog. She was sweet to people she knew, people whom she trusted, and people who treated her the right way.
Shortly after we got her home, we did a DNA test out of curiosity, and it revealed that she was mostly border collie, the rest was Australian cattle dog, and a little bit of “other.” The working breed genes came through loud and clear. That’s how she behaved. A bit bossy, not as lovie-dovie and cuddly as some might like, obedient, focused on her boss, really smart, with boundless energy and a strong desire to work with someone. If you ever played fetch with her, she was your friend for life. If not, she would wag her tail and say hello, but otherwise, she had limited use for you.
Recently, we said goodbye to Lucy. She was diagnosed with lymphoma and held on for a few months thereafter. For her last big adventure, we took her to fireworks-free Cannon Beach for a long Fourth of July weekend. Those were her last, best days: running, fetching, spending time with the friends she loved, and being a good doggie. Thereafter, it was all about palliative care.
We never knew how old she was, but in the end, her age didn’t matter. All that matters is that Lucy was integral to our lives for nine years and one month. Heaven knows what would have happened to her if we hadn’t rescued her. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about her life with her previous people. I just want to think about the hikes, the beaches, the parks, the walks, the fetching, and all of the love that filled her life, and ours, after we found her that serendipitous day.
You cannot invite or expect serendipity, and you never know what the universe has in store for you around the next bend in the highway. But if you keep your eyes peeled and your heart open, you might find unconditional love waiting for you somewhere between the thunderstorms. Next time it rains cats and dogs, don’t be afraid to take one home.
