stray dogs

My kids and I were driving across the Nevada desert some years ago. We stopped for gas well after dark. While I filled the tank, I noticed an abandoned dog — filthy and cowering — sidling up to us. "Stay in the truck," I told the kids. But when I came out after paying the bill, the kids were on either side of the dog and there were three pairs of pleading eyes looking up at me. The dog had her tail between her legs; one side was stove in from where she'd clearly been kicked hard. Her face was caked with some hideous combination of dirt and blood and both her ears were flat with submission. The kids stood up and faced me, knowing full well that I'm only hard-nosed selectively. "We have a pick-up truck. She doesn't have to ride in the cab. But we can't leave her here."

The debate didn't last long. I sighed, leaned over, scooped up the dog, and said, "Open the tailgate."

That dog, named Needles for obvious geographic reasons, lived with us for many years as a much-beloved part of the family. She cleaned up well, although one of her ears never did recover and stayed perpetually flopped over. She eventually stopped widdling uncontrollably, her ribs healed, and her tail came out from between her legs. She developed a spark of mischief and a highly-expressive use of her eyebrows. She still quivered around raised voices and forever looked panicked when we left, but her coat grew out glossy.  And boy, did she ever love us back until the day she died.

Everyone has an internal Needles, a part that is scared and scarred and grubby. How do you deal with the element of you that just needs love and kindness? Well, try scooping it up and carrying it home, looking with a tender eye toward the flaws and broken bits. Give your internal stray some compassion. And watch what happens.

Needles with her rescuers.