The Tail of Getting Here
Every rescue story starts with the same question: “So how did you even get into rescue in the first place?”
The truth? It didn’t start with rescue. It started with a dog named Betsy.
From birth through kindergarten, Betsy was in my life. A sweet mutt. An all-around good girl. My memories are hazy, but I remember enough. I remember an orange blanket at the vet. I remember eating eggs for breakfast and being mad I had to go to school. I remember learning she wasn’t coming home.
That was the first time I understood that loving a dog meant risking your heart.
Dogs were always part of my childhood after that. My aunts and uncles had them — Brandon, the steady yellow lab; Britt, the water-loving springer; later Charlie, the rescue who carried on her legacy.
Brandon once bit me in the face when I fell on him as a toddler. My parents made sure I was never afraid of him. We grew up together. He taught me something I wouldn’t fully understand until years later: dogs react, they feel, they communicate — and they deserve grace.
Summers were measured by how long the dogs stayed in the lake. Winters were warmed by fur at your feet. Dogs weren’t background characters in our family. They were part of the story.
In 2011, my brother and sister-in-law brought home Edlee, a cockapoo smaller than a pop can. He wasn’t mine, but I loved him like he was. He reminded me that connection doesn’t require ownership — just presence.
Years later, in 2022, I decided to get a dog of my own.
The search was endless. Profiles. Applications. Hope. Eventually, after adjusting expectations to fit real life — rentals, breed restrictions, practicality — I found him.
Jacob.
Meeting Jacob
One floppy ear. Alert eyes. A forever-puppy look that made my heart lock in instantly.
We adopted him on July 6th, 2023. Jacob became Jäger.
And first-time dog ownership? It wasn’t soft or seamless.
It was chaos. It was tears. It was Googling behaviors at 10pm.
It was wondering if I was enough.
Jäger’s heeler instincts run strong. His guarding genetics? Even stronger. Kids running? Absolutely not. Me being a slightly anxious, first-time dog owner? Instant job description: protect her at all costs.
There were overwhelming days. Tears-in-the-car days. Days I questioned whether I was built for this.
But there were breakthroughs too.
The first calm walk. The first successful redirect. The first time I realized we weren’t just surviving — we were building trust.
Small wins felt enormous. Huge victories felt life-changing.
Somewhere in that chaos, I leaned hard on the rescue community that had promised to support adopters like me. The people who answered my texts. The ones who reassured me I wasn’t failing. The ones who helped me understand structure, genetics, boundaries, and confidence.
I started as a leash holder at events — just someone who wanted to give back for the support I had received.
Then I became the volunteer marketing girl.
And then it snowballed.
Intake. Transports. Fundraisers. Advocacy. Storytelling. The kind of work that doesn’t just fill your schedule — it reshapes your heart.
Jäger continues to give back to rescue in ways most people don’t see.
He teaches me how to be a better dog parent. How to slow down and read body language. How to work through big feelings instead of trying to shut them down. He’s taught me management tools and confidence — lessons I now pass on to fosters and adopters navigating their own overwhelming moments.
Because of him, I’m more confident handling dogs with big feelings. The reactive ones. The overstimulated ones. The misunderstood ones. The ones that just need someone steady.
He made me steadier.
And then life shifted again. A breakup. Our world turning upside down. New routines. New realities. So many adjustments at once.
Through all of it — Jäger was my constant.
When everything else changed, he didn’t. He stayed. He is my best friend. My soul dog. He loved me anyway.
And we continue to fight, together, for the dogs who need someone to show up for them — just like Jäger and I showed up for each other.
Maybe that’s where rescue really begins. Not in perfection. Not in ease.
But in the chaos. In the tears. In the small wins and the huge victories. In choosing each other when it would be easier not to.
In loving anyway.