Cold rain and wind washed over my face when I arrived at my 6am Nia dance class. It was February, and a storm had blown in overnight. This day, an unattractive small black dog huddled on the front porch, clearly trying to stay dry. I assumed it had become frightened by the thunder and dug out of a nearby yard.
When class finished at 7am, I got into my car to leave, but the dog was still there, shivering in the early dawn. I worried it might race into the street and get ran over.
So, I went onto the porch and sat beside her. We communed for about an hour, and then I asked if she wanted to go with me. She immediately hopped into my car. I took her to the vet. She wasn’t micro chipped. No “lost dog” signs were up in the neighborhood. I think she had been eating out of the McDonald’s trash can.
The vet thought she was about eight years old. I named her “Nia” after the dance studio, and she became my fur-baby. I comforted her, she comforted me through some hard bumps in life.
Not long after I brought her home, I had a weekend conference. I left her with my parents. My dad called and told me she had dug out of the yard. I freaked out and combed the internet from Indiana. The “good thing” about having a dog with a face only a mother could love is no one adopted her. I found her safe at a shelter. My dad hurried to get her the next morning when they opened. She had been terrified of him and men, in general before, but she was SO excited to see him. He said it was clear to the people at the shelter she knew him. He rescued her from ‘jail’, and she spent hours snuggled on his lap after that.
