I first saw Polly on the side of the road in a very remote part of New Mexico that lies between the Zuni and Navajo reservations. She wasn’t the first dog I’d seen since I’d arrived – I think I passed at least 5 each time I went anywhere by car – but she was the first one I stopped for. Unlike the others, who all had a toughness to them, an understanding of “belonging” to someone regardless of what that entailed, Polly seemed aimless, forgotten, and alone. I drove past her at first, glimpsing her in my side mirror, but I did a double-take and immediately turned around, so struck by how much she looked like the dog of a friend back in Pennsylvania. When I stopped my car, Polly came around to the driver’s side door, wagging her tail, and she flopped over on her back, asking for a belly rub. She was long and short-legged like a corgi or basset hound, with the face of a beagle-mix, colored brown and white. She was so skinny that her round belly could only mean she was pregnant, so without overthinking it, I picked her up and put her in my car. She didn’t bark once.

We went to a gas station and I fed her the only thing I could find that she could eat – hot dogs, which she wolfed down ravenously, much faster than I would have liked. I asked the attendant if there was a veterinary clinic near by – there wasn’t. In fact, I wasn’t even sure this teenager knew what a veterinarian was. Out there, it seemed like a different country, a third-world one, where people struggled to take care of themselves and caring for a pet was absurd. So I took Polly home, knowing I couldn’t keep her, but hoping someone would have a solution.

I was working at a wolf sanctuary in the middle-of-nowhere, NM for three months, and I’d just started by stay. I was maybe 2-3 weeks in. I left Polly in the car and went into the volunteer’s common area, where 3 others were sitting. When I told them about the dog I’d just picked up, they stared at me blankly. “Well, you can’t keep her,” one said (who had 2 dogs there herself). “She’s probably a rez dog, just take her back to where you found her.”

I was so angry I couldn’t see straight. Their complete unfeelingness for this animal shocked me. How could you spend your days taking care of unwanted creatures, victims of abuse and neglect, and not have compassion for this one, this closely related relative? And how could you see your own adopted rez dog, rescued from a shelter, as a different case? One worth helping? The lack of compassion overwhelmed me and I left without further argument to talk to someone who many actually help. Putting this starving, sweet dog back on the side of the road was never an option.

Not knowing where else to go, I went to see the assistant director of the sanctuary, Crystal, who lived off site. She had 3 dogs of her own, and I trusted that her heart was big enough to at least see why I had picked this dog up, and why I needed to do something for her. I understood that I couldn’t keep her (I lived in a one-room shack with no yard and a roommate, and my time was intended to be dedicated to the sanctuary animals, not my own) but that didn’t mean she would be abandoned.

Crystal couldn’t help, but she was reluctant to tell me it was hopeless. She stood at my car window and looked at Polly, and I could see her struggling with the situation. Her first suggestion was driving to Santa Fe, which was 5 hours one way, to take her to a no-kill shelter (all shelters in Albuquerque are kill shelters). As we discussed that, she had a brainwave. I could try taking this dog up the road to a woman named Cheryl who had tons of rescued dogs. She may not help me, but she just might at that.

When Crystal said this woman had tons of dogs, she wasn’t lying. As I drove up the dirt road to the property, I could see about a half-acre of enclosures made from plywood and chain link, and the barking was thunderous. Each enclosure had at least 2 dogs in it, usually more, and there were all kinds. They seemed to be sorted by litters, as most of the ones together looked very similar. As I came to the locked gates, the baying rose to a hellish pitch, and of course, hearing it, someone headed down the path to meet me, as my arrival was clearly no secret.

The man who met me at the gate was not Cheryl, but an employee of hers, someone who she paid in living space to care for her animals. I explained to him where I’d found Polly, that I would be happy to take her home with me when I left, and why I couldn’t keep her now, and I left him a note with my name and information on it. He immediately took her in, pulling a slip lead from his pocket, and said they’d keep her. I was floored. It was that easy. She ran with him happily, her little legs moving twice his speed to keep up, and I felt relief. I went home to the sanctuary, made myself dinner, and relaxed. None of the other volunteers asked me how it had worked out.

The next day, Cheryl called the sanctuary and asked me to meet her at her home. I was apprehensive, dreading her telling me that she actually couldn’t keep Polly and that I’d have to take her back to the roadside. She didn’t, though. She was an older woman, a bit introverted and clearly more of a dog person that people person, but I liked her. She wore her heart on her face, and you could see years of care there, hanging in the frown. She showed me around, took me through the separate building full of rescued cats, walked me through the dog enclosures, and then introduced me to her special needs pets, a motley crew of dogs that lived in the home with her for one reason or another, all of which were heartbreaking. There were dogs that were thrown from cars, left to die from illness, rescued by the state from extreme neglect or abuse. They all loved her immensely, and you could see she loved them.

That being said, two people cannot care for 100 dogs by themselves. The dogs were well fed, and clearly well socialized with pets and people, but their enclosures were nothing luxurious and cleaning up dog poop was obviously a job they could never stay fully on top of. Some of the dynamics in the enclosures seemed a big fraught with tension – bottom ranking dogs were clearly not thrilled to be living with some of the larger, bossier personalities. The room full of cats smelled exactly as you’d expect it might, and there were quite a few runny eyes and noses, like at any over packed shelter. It was a clear example of someone trying to do good, doing their best, but lacking the resources to do it completely. I felt sad for Cheryl, and I felt her frustration that there was no one else around the area who cared to help, and I felt the weight of what she’d taken on and would never truly be able to give up. There would always be another dog that needed a home, and today, it was mine.

We talked about Polly and her situation. I made it clear that I would take her home with me when I returned to PA, and I wanted to pay for her veterinary care. Cheryl said that she knew Polly was pregnant, probably not too far along, but she estimated that she potentially had 4 pups. What did I want to do about that? I think I thought about it for less than a minute before I answered: I wanted to have Polly spayed and the pregnancy terminated. Around us the dogs barked wildly, non-stop. Cheryl nodded her head and agreed with me. Bringing 4 more unwanted puppies into this world was not a kind thing to do. Cheryl would take Polly to be vaccinated and spayed during one of her trips to Gallup, a town over an hour away (and the nearest veterinarian) and I would pay for the bill.

I visited Polly weekly at least. We went for walks, drives, or just played in her enclosure with the other dogs she lived with. She was spayed, and she stayed in the house for a while afterwards, clearly in pain. But she recovered and then moved into an enclosure with 2 other dogs. They had a big house for shelter, water, and tons of food, and I visited when I could. Leaving her was the hardest, and thinking about that made me not want to go. She’d try to crawl into my arms, scratch at my leg, or try to dig under the gate to get to me when I closed it. One day she got out before I could leash her and took off. I panicked, sure that I’d lost her and she’d be gone forever. But she did a big U-turn and came right back to me, jumping into my lap and licking my face. Somehow, she knew me and liked me despite the fact that I felt I wasn’t doing nearly enough.

On my final day in New Mexico, I drove to get her. My boyfriend was with me then, having flown out to drive home with me, and at that point, I knew I couldn’t keep Polly, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to leave her in that enclosure for the rest of her life, either. I was going home to a small apartment that already held 2 cats, and my landlady didn’t want a dog there, too. Brandon, my boyfriend, was also not thrilled with the prospect of a dog, let alone one he’d never met (if my landlady had relented though, Brandon would have, too). I’d researched shelters in the surrounding states and I’d found a no-kill one that had fantastic adoption rates and an excellent online presence. I paid Cheryl for the vet bill, gave her a donation as well, and loaded Polly up into an already full car. She was a fat dog by the point, well-fed to the point of too much so, and her roly-poliness was emphasized by her desire to be constantly on top of you. She slept on Brandon’s chest for the first whole day. I watched him slowly fall in love with her, cemented that night when they fell asleep together in the hotel, side by side on the bed.

The next day we dropped her off at a humane association in Flagstaff, AZ. I was the first one in the door, and seeing Polly’s hesitation broke my heart. She knew immediately that I was there to leave her. But the woman behind the front desk was wonderful. She asked me questions about Polly, never made me feel guilty about surrendering her, and spoke positively about her chances to be adopted. The kennel aide was kind, gentle, and spoke mostly to Polly, softly talking to her while he met her and making her feel at ease. They worked quickly, letting me get in and out (after a hug and kiss for Polly) before I had to cry, which I did as soon as I stepped back outside. Brandon hugged me and let me sob into his shoulder, and I felt so empty and hopeless at that time. The perception of shelters is that pets go in and never go out again.

I stalked the humane association relentlessly on our drive home. They posted beautiful professional-grade photos of their available pets and I refreshed almost every hour, searching for Polly’s picture. Finally it appeared, and I hounded it to see how many likes it got, if any of the comments were hopeful. Within a week, they updated the photo to indicate that she was adopted, and I cried with joy. What had been the most difficult thing suddenly became the best thing. The money, the time, the emotional investment was all worth it. Polly was safe, she was loved, and she had not been left on the side of the road to have puppies. This time, the cycle had been broken.

I think about Polly almost daily. She reminds me that I can help in ways outside of normal expectations. Just caring enough to intervene and disrupt the norm can make a difference. I haven’t seen photos of her new life, but I picture it as I hope it may be, and I send her good vibes from afar. Back here in PA, there are no stray dogs wandering around, no animals left unattended to do what they may. It feels like a lie though, since just a few states away things are much different. I’m looking forward to the day when I can call Cheryl and tell her I’d like to adopt another one of her dogs, and not just give it a shot at a better life, but ensure that it is better, and better with me.

@Medlyn
Madeline Harrington