When I was 14 years old, in the heart of a Detroit suburb, I found a stray German Shepherd mix wandering the streets. This wasn’t unusual for our area. Stray dogs were often left to their own fate, and I’d taken it upon myself to become an unofficial one-person rescue. Each time I found a dog, I’d take them to the local shelter to observe the required four-day stray hold. After that, the standard procedure was to send unclaimed dogs to Detroit Animal Control. But our local animal control officer had a soft spot for me. If no owner came forward, he’d call and give me the opportunity to take the dog back into my care. In nearly every case, I found the owner. Flyers, phone calls, knocking on doors—I was relentless. But then came Honey.
Honey never got claimed.
One day, the phone rang (the kind of phone that hung on the wall, and you didn’t know who was calling until you picked up 🙂 ). A woman on the line asked what we were going to do with the dog. My dad, who’d already made it clear we weren’t keeping her, said she could come meet the dog. The woman arrived, fell in love with Honey, and just like that she was gone. I was a typical teenager, angry, sad, and opinionated. I didn’t want to let her go, but I wasn’t in charge.
Weeks passed. Then one morning, I heard our front door open. My father groaned, and I heard his voice say, almost in disbelief, “Honey…” Moments later, I heard the sound of nails on the hardwood floor, gaining speed, coming down the hallway. It was Honey. She had come back.
It turned out the woman’s child was allergic. Honey was given to another family. That second home had a yard, but she dug under the fence. She traveled over 15 miles, crossing highways like I-75 and the bustling chaos of Woodward Avenue. She made it all the way back to our home.
On Easter Sunday, our family went out for brunch. My dad was proudly telling the story to our waitress. “That dog somehow knew where to go, despite having been driven to two different locations,” he said. The waitress smiled and said, “I’d love a dog like her.” Without missing a beat, my father replied, “Oh, we’re not keeping her.” Like a proper young lady, I promptly excused myself and locked myself in the bathroom.
A few minutes later, my mom joined me. She told me to stop crying long enough to strategize. She didn’t care anymore if we kept the dog, but she explained that I wasn’t going to change my father’s mind with a tantrum. Later that day, during our traditional Easter hike, we had a real grown-up conversation. We struck a deal: I could keep Honey, but she would be my responsibility. I had to cover her expenses, and when I moved out, she would go with me.
From that day forward, Honey was mine. From 14 to 16, she was my transportation – harness and leash, pulling me on my skateboard all around town. When I turned 16, my first vehicle was a pickup truck with a cap, so she could ride everywhere with me. When I went to Michigan State, we searched for pet-friendly apartments together. She was my Sparty sidekick, my shadow, my first real sense of independence and commitment.
Honey wasn’t just a rescue. She was a revelation. She taught me about loyalty, resilience, and how the best things in life sometimes have to find their own way back to you.
She set the tone for the work I do now. I’ve rescued hundreds of dogs, helped people find their four-legged match, and built a life around the principles Honey first taught me: second chances are everything.
Not all stories end with a dog coming back, but many begin with the simple idea that they deserve to.
🐾 Do you have a rescue story like Honey’s? We’d love to hear it. Rescues come in all shapes, sizes, and distances traveled—what’s yours?
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