Saving Grace

From the office of Grace Fischer….

This week, my mom got so busy planning her two upcoming book events that she asked me, her loyal and best friend Grace Fischer, to step in as a guest blogger for the month. Tasked with this great responsibility, I licked my paws thoughtfully, deep in contemplation. Then, a sudden burst of brilliance drew me towards the bookshelf, where I quickly found my all-time favorite book – Junkyard Girl.

Because I am a dog, and do not have opposable thumbs, it took me a minute to turn the pages to the best part of the book. You know, the bit where I meet Mom for the first time. Hearing how I found my forever home never grows old for me, and that’s what I’d like to share with you today.

So, from my heart to yours, here is my guest post for September, an excerpt from Junkyard Girl from the chapter SAVING GRACE written by my mom, Carlyn MDO.

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I PEERED THROUGH the chain-link fence at the white dog cringing behind a damp haystack.   

The dog—Betty, the name given her by rescuers—stared back, her mistrustful eyes revealing a tale of heartbreak.

Rachel, the woman who ran the rescue, informed me that Betty was six years old. A vet would later tell me she was eight; another would say three. Whatever her age, this snow-white dog with the black-tan-gold mask and soulful eyes had lived most of her life in a barn in a ramshackle town just north of Santa Fe. Nearly one hundred dogs were being held on the rural property in deplorable conditions—suffering from neglect, abuse, and rat infestations until they were rescued. The brutal details in newspaper articles left little to the imagination.

After the dogs’ former guardian landed in jail, rescuers transported them to a sanctuary set against the Sandia Mountains just south of Madrid, New Mexico. Two rows of kennels were quickly constructed, acting as temporary shelters until permanent homes could be found.

The setting sun falling over the mountains—a veil of vibrant purples and Parrish blue—made me forget the wind’s sharp bite on this thirty-five-degree day.

I walked toward the kennel, constricted by the cold and the two sweaters layered under my jacket. I lifted the latch, careful not to let it clank. When I stepped inside, the dog stepped back. Then she raised her nose into the air and caught a whiff of the sweet potato treats I’d stuffed into my pockets earlier that morning. She came forward for a treat, then immediately backed away again, her fear conquering her appetite.

As she darted behind bales of hay, I glimpsed a sizable bald patch on her rump. The sanctuary folks had told me she’d been attacked by a mountain lion. The scar, according to the vet, would never heal and her exposed pink skin would always need to be protected from the intense New Mexican sun.

I leaned against the chain link and waited. Minutes later, she slunk back over to me, keeping her distance to about five feet. Tossing treats in her direction, avoiding eye contact, and a dose of patience paid off. Feet became inches as she ventured closer.

Twenty minutes later, Betty nibbled a treat from my hand. By the end of the hour, curiosity had replaced anxiety, and in an act of fearlessness, she licked my face. The instant our eyes met, a silent pact formed between us. We knew we belonged to one another, a recognition between two spirits. It was an agreement I pledged to never break.

“What kind of dog is she?” my friend Kai messaged me.

“No idea,” I replied

“Why did you pick her?”

“Because she needs me,” I said, knowing full well that I also needed her. As I said these words out loud, it dawned on me that my mother may have felt the same way when she stumbled upon Maria crying in her friend’s yard. A child needed her, and she chose to help rather than walk away. My parents rescued me as I was rescuing Betty—just as I would always rescue.

“Betty, huh? You keeping that name?” another friend wondered.

“Nope, she’s not a Betty,” I said.

I knew this dog’s name six months before I adopted her. In the middle of my own rescue story, as I swam through the waters of shock and grief, one word kept coming to mind: grace, the mystical favor given by divine forces to strengthen us when we are most in need. This grace was gifted to me at birth through a second chance at life and has followed me since—an invisible presence that guides me when I’ve lost my way. Like a tender and benevolent presence, grace stands with me on that snowy plateau helping me put my identity back together again, one puzzle piece at a time.

“Grace,” I informed my friend. “Her name is Grace.”

Grace. I whispered the word into my new dog’s ear. It felt good to say. And I knew she liked it too when her brown eyes softened and blinked slowly, as though mesmerized by the sound. I slipped the leash around her neck. Grace glanced up at me, and I could see that mistrust was still alive—but now, so was hope.

“Let’s go, girl,” I said.

Together, Grace and I went on our first walk—beyond the chain link, stepping away from the shadows and into our future.

– From Junkyard Girl: A Memoir of Ancestry, Family Secrets, and Second Chances by Carlyn Montes De Oca

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