“I’m pulling my car over to snuggle puppies, I think I’m ready for another dog,” I said to a friend last April. After my rottweiler, Monty, died 18 months before, I took naps on his dog bed for two weeks. I heard his nails on the laminate floor. I heard him sigh.

     “You can borrow my dog,” said kind people. I didn’t want to borrow a dog. I didn’t even want to pat a dog. I struggled to teach my Dogsafe canine first aid courses without my assistant by my side.  By April 2013 -- three months after he died -- I was able to giggle at the signs Monty was leaving to show me he was still close. And that August, I cried again for two weeks.

     “Just go to a shelter and get another dog,” some people said. But grief is hard. And I know no other way to process it, than through it. For me, adopting another dog when I’m still working through my loss prevents a 100% commitment to my next dog.  

     By October 2013, I had sold my apartment and moved Dogsafe Head Office to Victoria, BC.  I started to look at dogs on adoption websites. In February 2014, I visited the local shelter for a quick walk-through. A few months later, I visited again. And patted and talked to the dogs.

     When Monty got sick, we had been planning a cross-country road trip. I had never been to the Atlantic Ocean. Nova Scotia called to me, especially Halifax. Maybe I’d find my dog along the way?

     I left Victoria on June 15, 2014. I drove across British Columbia then south and east through Idaho, Montana, North Dakota and Minnesota. I was going to take my time -- maybe four or five weeks -- to visit dog businesses and shelters along the way.

     Go east.

     In Menomonie, Wisconsin, I asked the Dunn County Humane Society Shelter volunteer if they had any senior dogs. There was a 9-year old cocker spaniel and 9-year old rat terrier -- neither was the one for me. I walked out of the shelter in tears. Am I not ready? I’m ready. I think. 

     Go east. 

     I ferried cross Lake Michigan, up through Ontario -- declining offers to visit friends -- then south again and straight east across New York, Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine.  Then north to New Brunswick to cross into Nova Scotia.

    On July 2, I arrived in Halifax, Nova Scotia.

     I set up my Dogsafe mobile office at the Shubie Campground. I loved Halifax’s harbours, the ferries, the running paths along lakes and the friendly people.  “How long will you be staying here?” people asked. “I’m open, but I might take the ferry to Newfoundland and Labrador next week,” I said. I checked the website and learned that the voyage was seven hours and dogs were placed in a separated kennel area with no visiting. “I’ll have to go before I get a dog.”

     After working in Halifax for a week, I visited the Bide Awhile Animal Shelter, a privately run organization.  “I wanted to introduce Dogsafe to you, and I’m also looking for a dog but I see you have just one dog on the website,” I said to the woman. My voice was shaky. My eyes got moist.

     “Sorry, this is emotional for me, I lost my dog over a year ago.”

     “I understand, I have dogs too,” she said. “We do have another dog that’s been here for only a week, a four-year-old black lab.” 
    
     “A black lab?” I said as I wiped my eyes.

     “Yes, would you like to see her?”

     “I had initially thought of a senior dog, but, uh, okay.”

     I followed her to an outside exercise area. My chest tightened as I spotted the black, stubby-legged Labrador retriever with a square head and pink collar.

     She’s the one.

     Oh shit.

     I sat with my back to the fence and peeked over my right shoulder. She panted and paced with her tail hung straight down. She walked close to the fence, then away.

     “Would you like to go in?”

     “Um, yeah, okay.”

     I walked through the chain link door and sat again. Lucy walked up to the volunteer and wagged her tail.  I yawned and lip licked -- canine calming signals -- and after a few minutes, she stood an arm's length away but allowed me to scratch her chest.  

     “What’s her story?” I asked.
 
      “She was surrendered by her owners, a young family with a four-year-old boy. Seems they were just too busy for her.”

     The volunteer left me alone with Lucy. I moved into the shade and she stretched out on the pavement beside me but not close enough to touch. Cat-like paws. Squishy forehead. Soft brown eyes.

     “Do you have any more information on her? Do you do behaviour assessments?” I asked.

     “We don’t have trainers come in but you can speak with our executive director, Darrold.

     I left the shelter. There were no tears.  

     What if she is dog-reactive? What if she has severe separation anxiety? What if she hates camping? Gets car sick?

     But I’m a trainer, I can work with her on any negative behaviours. And true, travelling has been easier without a dog, but I can't ignore my heart. 

     And my heart knew I couldn't leave Halifax without her.

     In the morning, I met Darrold, a large man with a grey beard, who cared deeply for his organization and animals. I met with Lucy again -- she was all tail-waggy with Darrold -- in a private room and we were left alone. She showed signs of stress -- panting, pacing, trembling, yawning -- but did follow me around while I held a loose leash and dropped pieces of dog treats. 

     I explained that I was a trainer, owner of Dogsafe Canine First Aid and was a long-distance runner and hiker who was self-employed and worked from home.

      “We do things a little different around here. We don’t need an extensive application since our assessment starts as soon as you walk in the door. We know there's a right match for each of our dogs and we’ll keep them until that happens. And I think the right match for Lucy is you.”

     After an hour of visiting with Lucy and speaking with Darrold, I completed the brief application.

      “We give you a 24-hour cooling off period so no money is taken right now,” he said.

     “I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” I said.

     On the way to the campground, I stopped to buy dishes, long-line, poop bags and an engraved ID tag. I bought a week’s worth of groceries for me and filled up the propane tank. The campground staff moved a motorhome to another site so that I could have their quiet, shaded site with electricity. I could now work from the campsite instead of the local library. 

     What lessons will Lucy teach me? Why did she choose me? Am I ready?

     The next morning, I completed the adoption process and Lucy jumped in my truck and found the dog treats on her new mat. We drove to the lake -- she loves the truck -- and went for a two-hour, long-line adventure. Running. Hiking. Wading. She twitched and snored for eight-and-a-half hours that night.

     In the morning, Lucy woke me up with face licks and tail thumps in the cramped space of the truck.

     She won't be an easy dog, though. She’s terrified of dogs and being alone and wary of everyday things and experiences -- tents, RVs, bathroom tiles, pet stores, garbage bags and people. So this week, I’ll reduce all stimuli by shrinking her world and we'll re-introduce her at a speed she can handle. 

     I don’t need a two-week visit to Newfoundland and Labrador, I have one at my feet for her lifetime.

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Thank you for spending your precious time with my story. If it resonated with you, let me know at [email protected] ... I love getting surprise emails.  
Photos by Me. 

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      Last night, I slept at a KOA Kampground to duck out a hail storm -- $32 to imprison my quirky Honda Element in a gravel lot surrounded by metal-sided bullies. I bolted from the RV lock-up before sunrise.

     I drove east through Montana -- by its own admission, a state where “you have to push a lot to get through it.” After six days on my cross-country road trip, I hadn’t had any wow. No a-ha. No soul-filling moments that I normally felt on road trips. The Honda was comfortable for both driving and sleeping. Gas station attendants, travellers at rest stops, camping neighbours -- all were friendly and fun to chat with. The land was pretty. Quiet reflective time while driving was okay. Should I not be here? Am I pushing too fast to reach the Atlantic ocean? As my shuffle mode spit out tunes from Elton John to the Sex Pistols, I crossed another state line.

     "It's not going to happen in North-freakin'-Dakota."

     At a view point, I looked out across the National Grasslands. Black cows chewed in the shade of large trees. I thought about the goats that became treasured camping companions during my hike in Turkey, less than three weeks ago. When I was nine, I would talk to cows for hours on my great-grandma’s farm near Vimy, Alberta. It's been twenty-seven years since I've eaten beef.

     As the sun dropped in the sky, I stopped at a Visitor Information Centre.
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     “Hi! What are my options for campgrounds in the next hour or so?” I asked.

     “Theodore Roosevelt National Park is 30 miles away in Medora,” she said.

     “Is Medora a town where I can pick up a few groceries too?”

     “Yes, it’s a cute little town.”

     A half hour later, I drove off the highway towards Medora. Within a few minutes, I saw the RV jail and refused a visitor's pass. Along both sides of Medora’s two-lane Main Street were cars parked close enough to make the bumpers blush. The storefronts had artificially faded wood siding and saloon swing doors. The road signs had phony aged letters. Neon signs flashed in windows -- Tickets for the Medona Musical! Take-out! Ice Cream! Souvenirs! Preteen girls squirted out between idling tour buses, followed by baseball-capped fathers who waddled across the road without looking right-left-right. 

     Get me, the f*ck, out of here.

     I u-turned back to the highway and fourteen miles away in Belfield, I followed a tent sign into a truck stop attached to a log cabin hotel.

     “Hi! Do you have camping for tents?”

     “No, just a cement RV lot, you might try Medora," said the woman at the desk without looking up. 

     “I tried there already, do you have any other suggestions?”

     “Dickinson is going to be packed with RVs too," she said to the desk top, "it is, Saturday night, you know.”

     I slammed the door a little too hard and the bell convulsed.  

     In Dickinson, I couldn't find the campground so scouted the streets for possible stealth camping options. Residential cul-de-sac lined with trees? Maybe. School parking lot?

     Perhaps. 

     I'm so not supposed to be in Dickinson, but it's been a long day, where, where?

     Back on Highway 94, I squinted at a brown sign with a white triangle -- Schnell Recreation Area -- attached like an afterthought to the large green mileage sign. I peeked at my open map on the passenger seat for a red tent icon after Dickinson.

     Nothing.

     Please be close, please be close. I lifted my visor, no longer needing it for the setting sun. 

     At the first stop sign off the highway, I saw the second sign – 3 miles.
​
     After a mile, I turned onto a hard-packed red dirt road. The highway hum vanished. Green grasslands swooshed and arched up to the sky. Yellow signs with black arrows – curve right, curve left -- completed the primary colour palette. Wire fences had signs nailed to each post which I thought read Keep Out. The Schnell Recreation Area gate had the same sign but as I coasted closer, the signs became clearer -- Public Land, Welcome. 

     My body jerked forward as I braked -- a turtle inched across the road towards the duck pond. "Oh hi turtle!" I said, the legs of my silver turtle ring jingled as I waved. 

     I stopped at the entrance gate -- “Two-thousand acres of grasslands acquired in 1993 by The Conservation Fund from the Schnell family. Six sites. First-come, first-serve. $5 per night. Maximum 14 days”. A travel trailer was set-up in the first site -- we waved to each other. The only other vehicle, a truck camper in the last. Each site was the size of a neighbourhood baseball diamond and had a circular driveway more at home in front of a plantation manor. Mowed lawns. Outhouse cabins with covered cement patios. Fire rings, stand-up barbeque grills. And two wooden picnic tables each -- one open, one covered with a heavy-duty timber canopy. 

     And cows.

     “Hi cows!” I yelled through the open passenger window.

     Site #3 welcomed me. I looked at the 7 o’clock sun and I jumped into my black nylon running shorts, pink tank top and lime green Nikes.  I sprinted along the barbed wire fence towards the entrance gate. The cows lifted their heads, black muppet ears flared out, yellow ear tags twitched. Eyes stared, jaws gyrated.

     I smiled as one cow started to run alongside the fence. And another.  Then two more. Then five more.  Grass blades as tall as wheat parted as the cows thundered through them. Thirty-seven cows joined my team as we raced towards the main gate. 

"Yeaaaah!" I yelled, "whooooo, yeaaaaa--!"

     Their hooves roared next to my silent footsteps. My nose burned and twitched as my eyes filled with tears. I cupped my left hand over my mouth -- as if my choked-up cries would embarrass my burly team mates.   

      As we neared the main road, the cows pivoted left and trotted up the ridge. I waved goodbye and ran through the gate to meet my new team of black song birds with wings the color of traffic cones. 


Photo source
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Thank you for spending your precious time with my story. If it resonated with you, let me know at [email protected] ... I love getting surprise emails.