Heart To Rescue

"Not all Those Who Wander are Lost."

-C.S. Lewis

I guess you could say I have always been a stray magnet. Even as a very young child I remember feeling an odd, soulful connection to the many homeless wanderers that somehow managed to find me wherever I happened to be. On the swing set in my yard, playing in the wooded area behind our house or just walking home from school, no place was immune to what I believed to be my ability to attract animals in need.

Growing up in northern California, then later in southern Idaho, my family took a lot of weekend vacation trips. My parents loved cave exploring, national parks, ghost towns and any number of other unique destinations.

We pulled a camp trailer for sleeping in and that meant stopping for lunches at which ever park, rest stop or campground we were passing at the time that my brothers and I would declare from the backseat our desperate need to eat or to use the restroom. And by backseat, I mean the entire back half of our station wagon! We would lay the seats down and then stretch out blankets across the open space. No seatbelts, no restrictions, plenty of blankets and pillows and of course, snacks. My brothers and I enjoyed this makeshift sleepover paradise every time we went on a road trip. Amazingly, we all survived unharmed, although I admit it was only by the grace of God!

Quite often, it was at these parks that my brothers and I would go exploring, while waiting for my mother to prepare our lunch. She would spread a colorful, vinyl cloth across the picnic table to cover any sun- dried bird droppings or debris that may have fallen from the trees. Then she would bring out a basket brimming with an array of sandwiches and fruit, chips and cookies. My dad would spread a blanket on the ground and lay down on it, but just to “rest his eyes” as he would say.

In the meantime, we kids would run off to wander the area, my brothers happy to just be able to stretch their legs. I, on the other hand, was always searching diligently for treasures to add to my special rock collection. Shiny, smooth, heart shaped, any number of features could earn a lucky stone a place in my collection.

What I didn’t have to search very hard for were the lonely strays in need of attention that I had a habit of stumbling upon. It was as though they had been conducting their own diligent search for me. At these remote locations, the stray would usually be something a little wild; a ground squirrel or a chattering chipmunk, a blue jay or even a fat little marmot looking for an easy snack. I have even experienced, on several occasions, a gentle deer or two, feeling comfortable enough to wander much closer than you would expect from such timid creatures. Of course, I would willingly oblige them all with the crusts of my sandwich or bits of broken potato chips.

I know what you’re thinking, not all of these animals were technically strays. But they were alone, searching for affection or a handout, and I was always there, willing to offer both. After all, you don’t have to be abandoned to still need rescuing, even if just for a moment. Wild or domestic, claimed or discarded, an expression of love, a kind word or a soft touch, can bring refreshing and rescue to any heart.

With youthful innocence, I imagined that each stray pup or meandering cat was drawn to me by some force of nature. It felt as though we were destined to meet right there in that place at that very moment in time. Before long we would be acting like long- lost, best friends who had found each other at last! My heart would break each time I had to leave them.

I was a shy child when it came to people but had no issue with expressing PDA when it involved animals. This generally consisted of ear scratches, belly rubs, bouts of hilarious giggles and lots of wet kisses! Unless it was a cat, then it consisted of whatever she would allow. Cats always set their own boundaries, and they maintain the right to change up the rules whenever they feel like it! Dogs, in contrast, were created for giving and receiving love. They are the ultimate Space Invaders. If you let them, they will gladly invade your space while welcoming you into theirs.

I began to expect, even long for, the next rendezvous with whatever stray I was destined to encounter. My watchful eye could spot an animal before my parents even had time to shout a warning. My love for animals was neither prejudice nor particular, which meant there were times I approached dogs that terrified my mother. I, to the contrary, had no fear of them. It wasn’t exactly courage on my part. I was just so convinced they would love me that somehow they always did. I did not know then what I do know now about dogs and their ability to love beyond reason. It’s as though it’s in their DNA, how they were designed. Back then, I assumed it was all about me. I guess that is a dog’s super power; to make you feel as though you are the most important being on earth. I was determined to return the favor.

My grand mission was to spread love to every unloved animal soul I could find. I dreamed of being a veterinarian someday and owning a large piece of property where I could take them all in. Needless to say, that led to a childhood filled with as many pets as I could possibly convince my parents to allow me to keep. I admit I was not above begging. In fact, I even played the “I’m the baby of the family and the only girl” card on more than one occasion.

Sometimes, the animals I encountered were actually neighborhood pets, just out for a wander, hoping to find someone willing to pay attention to them. Next to my childhood home, lived a lovely, Italian family, the Carneys. They always had at least two or three cats of their own. Unfortunately for them, no one in their family possessed my magnetic powers, so their cats spent much of their time at my house, on my porch, sitting in my lap, purring happily.

When Mama Carney would call the cats to dinner, I would whisper in their ear and tell them that it was okay, they could go back home for the night and pretend to be their cats again. After all, we both knew they would be back in the morning!

One of my earliest memories involved laying over the edge of the bed, peering down at a blanket lined box, crawling with newly born kittens, products of one of our neighbor’s promiscuous and un-neutered felines. I wasn’t even three years old yet and these tiny kittens seemed to me to be the most precious things ever. I simply couldn’t live without one. Thankfully, I didn’t have to.

Sammy grew from the tiniest kitten in the litter to a stunning, majestic, cat. He was my companion for the next 12 years. Notice I didn’t call him my buddy. Sammy was far too regal to act like a common, purring, lap cat. He liked to choose the highest and best perches in the house for that bird’s eye view. This allowed for him to watch the family’s daily ventures while still avoiding any chance of having to deal with a slobbering dog or two. He would allow only his head to be touched and would punish with a bite, those who dared stroke his long, black fur. If you were so bold as to attempt to touch his fabulous tail, you would be met with a sharp slap! That was fine with me though. I felt as though Sammy was royalty and by rights deserved to be so finicky. Sammy tolerated me petting him more than anyone else. He was a talker and had many different sounds for what he wanted to say. It was my job to interpret for him. The mere sound of a can opener piercing the lid of a can of tuna would bring Sammy out of his deepest dreams to come running to the kitchen. At those times he displayed the temperament of an excited kitten begging for a treat rather than the manners of the dignified cat that he was.

The year after we had adopted Sammy, when I was nearly four, Rover came into my life. He was one of four pups, from yet another unplanned litter. My mother and my brothers and I each chose a favorite. Pup Star and Astro, as my brothers named them, had beautiful markings and agile long legs, perfect for jumping up to see over the edge of their box bed. Rover’s sister, Laika, had scrumptiously soft, curly, brown fur. She was my mom’s pick of the litter. Rover was the runt. He had short legs. Unusually short legs. He had an exceptionally long and unbecomingly fat body that rested on those unusually short legs. This all made for a belly that hung dangerously close to the ground and an inability to jump high enough to see much of anything from inside his box prison.

I thought Rover was the most incredible pup of them all, at least I knew he needed me the most. It was time to play that baby sister card. I am still amazed at how well that worked. Much to my brothers’ dismay, Rover was the only puppy that found his forever home with us.

He was definitely my buddy and my protector for the next 13 years. By the way, his legs stayed short and his fat sausage body never got in shape, but his sweet nature and his giving heart was like an extension of mine. He loved and stood guard over other small animals; my cousin’s kittens we babysat for a week, the two young squirrels we raised and countless hamsters my brother’s and I had adopted throughout the years. Rover would sit beside them for hours, snuggling them and bathing them with his tongue. I had never seen such a care-giving dog before and it made me love him all the more. Years later, when I watched the movie Hook, I thought of Rover when Peter Pan tells the lost boy, Thud Butt (I didn’t name him) to take care of everyone smaller than him. That was Rover’s calling in life.

Christmas night, 1974, brought a family of kittens to our front porch. I was 10 and we were now living in Idaho and experiencing a very cold winter. We discovered the two kittens when we heard their little cries at the door. My mother was upset, assuming someone had dumped them off, relying on our holiday spirit to not turn them away. It was then that we spotted her, the mother cat, with a 3rd kitten, as she hid in the snow covered bushes. We closed the door quietly and she braved dropping off her last baby on our doorstep. That was the last time we saw her. I cried that night even as I covered the kittens with a warm towel my mother had heated in the dryer. I cried as we fed them Sammy’s food, softened with warm water. I cried for the sacrifice their mama had made.

It was the next day that I discovered that King Sammy was not going to forgive me any time soon for bringing orphans into his kingdom. If I had touched the kittens before touching Sam, he would slap my hand away or even bite my finger lightly to remind me to wash their scent off before coming near him. He definitely did not share my lack of prejudice for homeless creatures! Not to worry, they had Rover to stand in as their adopted mother.

There have been many other strays that have come and gone in my life and later in my children’s lives. They were all unique in their own ways, yet similar in their ability to love unconditionally. In retrospect, it’s clear that the act of rescuing a stray is a small price to pay in exchange for what these furry creatures give in return. I think it is safe to say that many times, we humans are the ones being rescued.

Last year, the infamous 2020, stole more from me than just my freedom. My best big boy, my 180 lbs. gentle giant, Kenai, passed on in July. He left an equally giant hole in my life and although I knew I may someday allow my heart to love another pup, I was sure that I would never be able to connect with another dog the way Kenai and I connected.

It was just my husband and I when we first brought Kenai home. My children had grown and moved out with families and rescued pets of their own. Kenai was not a stray. He was the first pure bred I had ever owned. A Malamute, whose father had been bred from the Wakon Giants. Kenai was also not the runt of the litter that I usually chose. He was, in fact, the largest pup in his litter although apparently not the bravest. His mournful, little howls every 2 hours on the hour each night for the first week made us question the sanity of our choice to adopt him. We had successfully raised six children to adulthood and here we were, subjecting our hard earned, well deserved, previously uninterrupted sleep to the equivalent of a crying infant. Every doubt melted away with just one look from those deep brown eyes. I lay beside his bed night after night, softly singing to him and stroking his front legs to calm his fears. He had won my heart like no other.

From then on Kenai never left my side. Caring little for what other dogs were doing, Kenai keenly kept an eye on me, concerned and interested in everything I did. He was a leaner. If you've ever had a dog that leans, you can imagine what that was like at 180 lbs! When I walked, Kenai walked so closely up against my legs that our steps were in sync. With Kenai near, I felt safe whenever my husband was away. When the barking of the neighborhood dogs became more than he could stand, Kenai would let out a howl that could curl the hair on the back of your neck! With that one long, drawn out howl, the neighborhood would fall into hushed silence. Kenai was a lover though, not a fighter. He was all talk and talk and more talk! He insisted on having the last word in every conversation and he loved to interrupt when my husband was speaking to me! And now, after 10 years, he is gone.

I have heard that grief is simply leftover love with nowhere to go. If that is true then I was virtually swimming in the love I had yet to give my sweet boy. Even now, nearly nine months later, waves of that leftover love still occasionally splash over me at unexpected times.

With the arrival of spring, 2021, I have felt a renewal of that familiar desire to once more share my heart with a dog in need. Love was meant to flow into us and back out again in a cycle and therefore, that love needs an outlet, an object of our focus and attention. I have decided to once again return to my childhood commitment and rescue a stray, quite possibly from our local Humane Society. I will take my time though, refusing to rush what must come naturally. It is important to take care when choosing your rescue pet, as animals should be considered neither disposable nor dispensable. I don’t know what my next pup will look like or where I will find him but I do know I love him already. Although my ability to be a stray magnet has seemed to fade through the years, I have this odd assurance that when I do meet my new friend, he will, in fact, choose me. Or rather, we will choose each other. It may not be audible, but when I look into his eyes, in that moment we will just know it’s right.

I write this story not to highlight any one experience I have had in rescuing a stray, but rather to shine the light on the fact that we are at our best when caring for those in need. We become better humans when we open our hearts to rescuing and loving an animal. Whether that animal has the capacity or the ability to love us back does not lessen the impact that rescuing them can have on our hearts.

My lifetime of encounters with animals, wild or domestic, claimed or discarded, has brought me to the conclusion that a stray is merely one who has wandered off the path and gotten a little lost in the process. Whether their journey is due to rejection or simply distraction, they roam as vagrants in search of a love lost and a forever home. In that way, are we so different in our own life searches?

No wonder we are moved by so many touching stories about people’s lives being changed when they rescue a stray. They are the tales of two lost souls finding their kindred spirit in the midst of what can be a chaotic and menacing world. The line between the rescuer and the rescued blurs and fades as the difference becomes indiscernible. As we provide for their natural needs they in turn come with an ability to meet some of our deepest emotional needs for acceptance and love. It is through this exchange that the bonds of true friendship are forged. And it is through those friendships that the quality of our humanity is raised.