Wyllow Hildner
Cold Nose, Warm Heart
A young girl steps out of her comfort zone to find her passion.
For years, Morgan had told me all about her reservation rescues. Out of the blue, she invited me along.
Now, to clarify, a reservation rescue is when we go out on the Navajo Reservation and we pick up the stray dogs there, and we bring them back to shelters in hopes of finding them a new home.
When she asked me, I was nervous because at the time I had not gotten out of my comfort zone very often, but I was also very tempted because after hearing all those amazing stories, it only made me want to be a part of it. So, I hesitantly said yes.
Now, fast forward one week. After waking up at five a.m. and eating what I think was only a piece of bacon for breakfast and getting in my freshly bought scrubs, we were walking into the clinic at eight o’clock in Newcomb.
As we opened the doors, the smell of dog poop overcame my senses. We were walking into complete chaos. There were animals everywhere. They were on chains, in boxes, in the back of pickup trucks. It was like walking into a room full of preschoolers hopped up on sugar; that’s how loud it was in there.
So, Morgan jumped right in, as she had done this before, but I had to take a few minutes to fully comprehend what was happening around me.
After these few minutes were over, I scanned the room from left to right, and my eyes met Morgan’s and she could see that I had this look of shock on my face. I could see that her face said, What are you doing?
At that moment, I snapped back into reality and began to help check-in and vaccinate dogs.
After three hours of feeling like a nuisance with my constant questions, Morgan walked up to me excitedly and said, “Time for a rescue!” I felt butterflies, but I did not once question whether I wanted to go or not. This was the whole reason why I came.
I followed Morgan out the door and she stopped walking when we got to this old, beat-up clinic van. She opened the long sliding door, and I was absolutely taken by the sight of bags upon bags of dog food. I looked around and I noticed that the only seats were the passenger’s and the driver’s seats. I slowly turned my head to Morgan’s and asked her, “Where are we supposed to sit?”
She replied, “On the dog food!”
So, I casually got in, acting like I had done this before. And after thirty minutes of driving in this van with only one working air conditioning vent, we finally pulled over at this old gas station. I opened the long sliding door, and the red dust cleared, and I could see four dogs doing their best to lay in the shade. They were skin and bones and had looks of exhaustion across their red-tinted faces.
Morgan handed me a leash and a can of cat food and she got the same thing for herself. She began to walk towards the dogs. I followed closely behind and I mirrored her every move, as she opened the can of cat food and she dumped it into her hand. I did the same. Now, this can of cat food smelled like it had been in the van for weeks and it could closely compared to the smell of the clinic.
This smell traveled over to the dogs and got the attention of a large, tan mutt that had obviously seen better days. He got up and began to walk over to me slow and steady. I got my leash ready, as my hands were shaking and my mouth was as dry as my environment.
At this point, we were about a foot and a half away from each other when he began to lean towards me. He sniffed the tips of my fingers hesitantly with his dry nose. I could see that he was ready to bolt at any given moment.
He finally reached the food that had begun to morph with my hand, and he took bite after bite and began to relax a little bit. I saw this as my opportunity, so I grabbed my leash, doing everything in my power not to scare him away, and I got into position.
In a split second, my heart dropped to my stomach as the leash tightened around his neck. He began to roll in the dirt and yelp over and over again. I held the leash so tight it turned my hands red.
He finally stopped after a few minutes. He laid there in the dirt, panting, and he looked up at me. I reached my hand toward him and began to stroke underneath his neck.
As I felt his gritty fur, I could feel his unfortunate history, and I could see his promising future. Without a word spoken, I could still hear, Thank you.
Now, to clarify, a reservation rescue is when we go out on the Navajo Reservation and we pick up the stray dogs there, and we bring them back to shelters in hopes of finding them a new home.
When she asked me, I was nervous because at the time I had not gotten out of my comfort zone very often, but I was also very tempted because after hearing all those amazing stories, it only made me want to be a part of it. So, I hesitantly said yes.
Now, fast forward one week. After waking up at five a.m. and eating what I think was only a piece of bacon for breakfast and getting in my freshly bought scrubs, we were walking into the clinic at eight o’clock in Newcomb.
As we opened the doors, the smell of dog poop overcame my senses. We were walking into complete chaos. There were animals everywhere. They were on chains, in boxes, in the back of pickup trucks. It was like walking into a room full of preschoolers hopped up on sugar; that’s how loud it was in there.
So, Morgan jumped right in, as she had done this before, but I had to take a few minutes to fully comprehend what was happening around me.
After these few minutes were over, I scanned the room from left to right, and my eyes met Morgan’s and she could see that I had this look of shock on my face. I could see that her face said, What are you doing?
At that moment, I snapped back into reality and began to help check-in and vaccinate dogs.
After three hours of feeling like a nuisance with my constant questions, Morgan walked up to me excitedly and said, “Time for a rescue!” I felt butterflies, but I did not once question whether I wanted to go or not. This was the whole reason why I came.
I followed Morgan out the door and she stopped walking when we got to this old, beat-up clinic van. She opened the long sliding door, and I was absolutely taken by the sight of bags upon bags of dog food. I looked around and I noticed that the only seats were the passenger’s and the driver’s seats. I slowly turned my head to Morgan’s and asked her, “Where are we supposed to sit?”
She replied, “On the dog food!”
So, I casually got in, acting like I had done this before. And after thirty minutes of driving in this van with only one working air conditioning vent, we finally pulled over at this old gas station. I opened the long sliding door, and the red dust cleared, and I could see four dogs doing their best to lay in the shade. They were skin and bones and had looks of exhaustion across their red-tinted faces.
Morgan handed me a leash and a can of cat food and she got the same thing for herself. She began to walk towards the dogs. I followed closely behind and I mirrored her every move, as she opened the can of cat food and she dumped it into her hand. I did the same. Now, this can of cat food smelled like it had been in the van for weeks and it could closely compared to the smell of the clinic.
This smell traveled over to the dogs and got the attention of a large, tan mutt that had obviously seen better days. He got up and began to walk over to me slow and steady. I got my leash ready, as my hands were shaking and my mouth was as dry as my environment.
At this point, we were about a foot and a half away from each other when he began to lean towards me. He sniffed the tips of my fingers hesitantly with his dry nose. I could see that he was ready to bolt at any given moment.
He finally reached the food that had begun to morph with my hand, and he took bite after bite and began to relax a little bit. I saw this as my opportunity, so I grabbed my leash, doing everything in my power not to scare him away, and I got into position.
In a split second, my heart dropped to my stomach as the leash tightened around his neck. He began to roll in the dirt and yelp over and over again. I held the leash so tight it turned my hands red.
He finally stopped after a few minutes. He laid there in the dirt, panting, and he looked up at me. I reached my hand toward him and began to stroke underneath his neck.
As I felt his gritty fur, I could feel his unfortunate history, and I could see his promising future. Without a word spoken, I could still hear, Thank you.