Your Pet's Rescue Story
I found Gracie on a highway in the Withlacochee Forest. She'd emerged from the woods to scrounge for food in trash a motorist had thrown out. When I pulled over to pick her up, she limped back to the protection of the forest. I stood for an hour in the rain trying to coax her into my arms with no success. If it wasn't for the kindness of a Delta Airlines employee on his way to work stopping to help me out with chicken from his lunch box, I never would have been able to rescue Grace. Leaving her to starve would have haunted me forever.

Grace's leg was so badly broken that it dangled off her hip like it was swaying in the breeze. She had heart worm and weighed just 30 lbs. She had every internal parasite a dog can get plus fleas and ticks. Gracie had to have been in immense pain but she never complained. Not once.

I spent nights on the floor with Gracie during her recovery. During the day I'd try and keep her still so that the heart worms didn't move through her body. We'd listen to podcasts. I'd spoon her and tell her about how dogs got to live when they were loved and cared for. I explained the differences between green grass, sand and snow. I assured her she'd still be able to climb mountains with her three remaining legs because she was magnificent. We planned trips to the beach together.

Did I mention I did this for a dog I wouldn't be able to keep? I already had two dogs, no yard and small condominium. All I could offer Grace was a temporary shelter to get well until I could find her a home. And it had to be me because the sad truth is that no one would have been interested in adopting a starving, infected, 3 legged black pit bull out of the shelter. I felt lucky I was the one given the opportunity to care for her. I poured love into Grace not because she was mine, but because she deserved it.

Drive east along 50, half an hour from the place I found Gracie and you'll see dozens of puppy stores on Colonial. All of them are fronts for midwestern puppy mills and backyard breeders. Every week people walk into those stores and pay $1000 for a dog whose parents live in hell, churning out puppies while herniated and sick.

What makes one dog a piece of trash to be discarded in the woods and another worth $1000? Human inability to open their hearts to love from the unexpected. Keep that in mind the next time you look at a plain black dog at the shelter. Markings and breeds don't make a dog special. Your capacity for love does.

God Bless Gracie and all the other unwanted "trash" dogs that people refuse to open their hearts and homes for. I hope that someday there is a loving place for you all.