Fierce Beauty (9 page)

While relocating a horse in need, some of my staff became aware of two dogs that lived in the same crumbling location. Among their other visible problems, both dogs had been starved to half their normal body weight. Kelsie and Laurie decided after much prayer and consideration that they could do more than simply feel bad—they could each make a difference for a dog in need. They returned to the dilapidated residence, and each brought home one of the suffering canines.

Immediately a sad truth emerged. For these rescued dogs, being savagely thin was not their worst problem. Laurie’s dog had a severe and potentially lethal form of diabetes, and Kelsie’s dog had a very serious injury to her throat.

The dog Kelsie chose, a Dalmatian mix, was sweet and mostly white with an adorable black patch over one eye. On the day of her rescue, the dog was so ill that Kelsie drove her directly to a veterinary hospital.

At the clinic the doctor determined that the injured dog was feverish from a systemic infection. He also examined the gash on her neck—a gruesome, gaping three-by-five-inch hole in her throat just below her chin. From the wound seeped a continuous issue of bloody serum and pus. Kelsie was sent home with a sack brimming with powerful antibiotics and detailed instructions on how to administer aid to her new, sick dog.

On the way home Kelsie reached across to the passenger seat, where her ailing dog lay curled. She gently stroked the wounded animal’s head
to comfort her. The feeble dog lifted only her eyes, apparently too weak to move much else. In the moments that followed, Kelsie’s car slowly began to fill with the soft, continuous rhythm of canine gratitude. In glances as she drove, Kelsie watched hope begin to rise within the dog’s ravaged body. In a feeble effort at thankfulness, her tail gently strummed against the seat. And so a new friendship began.

A week later at the ranch, with a radiant smile, Kelsie announced, “Her name is Dakota. It’s a Native American word for ‘friend.’ ” Dakota’s new moniker instantly became a purposeful banner over her life. Even in her weakness during her recovery, she was indeed a friend to all. Seasoned with multiple veterinary appointments, Dakota’s health slowly began to rally.

Initially her front legs appeared to be extremely weak and uncoordinated. Unlike a healthy dog, she could not reach forward to hop up a step or spring over an obstacle. I also noticed that she relaxed in a peculiar position. Dakota consistently held her left front leg and shoulder slightly elevated and pulled in toward her center. In this stance she turned her head slightly to the left, with her chin tucked down toward her body. This was not a normal posture for a resting dog.

Another strange observation was that she was terrified when others were motionless and intently focused on her. I noticed this the first time I tried to steady myself to take her picture. She was content and seemed to enjoy the attention I gave her until I pulled out my camera and turned it in her direction. Her response was to run and hide under the nearest truck. Kelsie and I were left to look at each other and ponder the reason for this peculiar behavior.

Despite her mysterious conduct, Dakota slowly gained weight and strength. She began to run and play with other dogs and eventually became a beloved friend to Seven, my small blue heeler.

Kelsie was told that in this stage of Dakota’s recovery, exercise would be good for her dog. The vet shared that it would stimulate her circulation, muscle development, and general well-being. When asked about the
possibility of taking Dakota on a pack trip, the vet said it would be a fine idea.

After discussing it thoroughly, Kelsie and I agreed on a plan of action. Because we always hike in while leading our horses under panniers, we knew if Dakota became fatigued, we could easily boost her onto one of their five strong backs.

Once our horses were packed with enough gear and food for nearly a week, we cinched each of their loads into a high and tight position. After performing a quick check of every buckle, strap, and knot, we joined hands to pray over the trip. With all of us carrying our own backpacks and guiding our own horses, we set off toward a new adventure.

Our travels would take us approximately seven miles into the Cascade wilderness. Since we’re constantly training our horses, I wanted each one to experience every position, from leader to follower, along the trail. To accomplish this, we rotated horse and hiker teams every thirty minutes. While guiding Cade—a relatively new-to-us, smoky buckskin—in the front of the string, I took great pleasure in observing how much Dakota enjoyed simply being a dog.

She and Seven, or Sevi for short, explored every bush, log, and tree. Once we broke out of the forest onto the high Wickiup Plains, the two dogs ran with complete abandon, bumping shoulders as their canine teeth clashed in an open-mouthed romp of blatant joy. Had they let loose with a life-is-awesome celebration howl, I certainly would’ve joined them. Just the thought of it made me smile. It was wonderful to see this sweet dog getting better physically and feeling better too.

After nearly two hours of hiking along the abrupt edge of an immense obsidian lava flow that soared three hundred feet above us, high plains gave way to a sweeping north-slope descent into a glorious, old growth forest. The snowcapped panorama of the pumice plains quietly succumbed to the towering, cool depths of the mossy canopy above. Snow-fed streams tumbled all around us, each flanked by a brilliant tapestry of pink monkey flowers, purple larkspur, red Indian paintbrush, and orange columbine. Small yellow flowers that I didn’t recognize also seemed to
join in the merriment with a bright, visual laughter of their own. After another hour we turned off the main trail and blazed to what I knew in my heart to be nearly hallowed ground.

The dense forest opened up into an expansive, southern-sloping meadow. While striding through the knee-deep grass, I realized this massive, green wonderland was also a favorite banquet area for mule deer, elk, and bears, as well as the steed at my side. The look of pure awe on my horse’s face was priceless. Perhaps he believed that somewhere along the way he had crossed an invisible threshold and had been transported from earth directly into heaven itself.

We set up our base camp away from the meadow in a dense stand of trees. Because the thick canopy overhead thwarted any fragile plants or underbrush from growing beneath them, it was an ideal place to camp with minimum impact.

Each day held unique rewards. Heralding every morning was a glorious sunrise, a visual concert with golden spears of light pouring over the jagged eastern horizon. On horseback we navigated by compass and daily indulged in hillsides of blueberries warmed by the sun. We exchanged all reason for the pure “wahoo” factor of plunging into a frigid lake. Evenings were framed by soft facial expressions warmed by the amber glow of a fire. And a grand finale came while lying on our backs in the meadow at night and watching our breath rise beneath a glittering display of endless stars.

Within the vast array of gifts that our days held, there was one consistent task that Kelsie faithfully performed. Each morning and evening she heated water over the fire and made hot poultices to help draw out the seeping infection that still plagued Dakota’s wounded throat. In an attempt to keep the gash as clean as possible, after each hot-pack application, Kelsie tied a fresh handkerchief around the area where a collar would normally be.

Despite Kelsie’s continuing treatments, the wound on Dakota’s neck simply would not heal.

After our arrival home, my thoughts again turned toward Kelsie’s
new companion. To the best of our knowledge, it had been a full four months since Dakota’s initial injury. The former owners had told Kelsie they believed the dog had been attacked by a bobcat. While neither of us believed that was the real story, we conceded that it didn’t matter how she was injured, only that her wound was not healing. After more trips to the vet than Kels could count on her hands, dozens of poultice applications, wound ointments, three full rounds of powerful antibiotics, and plenty of rest and exercise, Dakota’s throat injury persisted. Though she had returned to a normal weight and her wound was vastly improved, what troubled me most was that it was still festering.

Kelsie and I now believed the wound track in Dakota’s neck traveled downward. This meant that any infection or minor debris would travel deeper into her body instead of flowing out. I shared Kelsie’s gut feeling that
something
was still inside Dakota, something her body could not expel.

At the veterinary hospital we explained our suspicions to Dr. Shawn, a new veterinarian who hadn’t yet seen Dakota. He agreed there might be a fragment of some foreign body that had pushed down into the wound, perhaps a sliver of wood or even a piece of cheat grass. Either way, he was going to shoot a few x-rays before he surgically cleansed the seeping gash. It was his opinion this would take care of Dakota’s problem once and for all.

Pushing through the exit doorway of the hospital and walking out with Kels to my truck—without Dakota—was hard. Barely settled into the passenger seat, my dear friend yielded to the pressure of her building tears. In a voice filled with emotion, Kelsie explained how much she loved this special dog and how—true to her name—she had become one of her dearest and closest friends. Flooded by another tearful tide, she barely managed to express that she didn’t know how she would make it … if Dakota didn’t survive.

Teardrops slipped off Kelsie’s chin and dotted the front of her green ranch shirt. I reached across the cab of my truck and took her hands, and together we prayed.

Fortified with the information that Dr. Shawn would call with an update as soon as Dakota was out of surgery, we made our way back to Crystal Peaks and prepared for the upcoming day.

As always, the ranch was bursting with activity. Kelsie was bright, giving all she had to the kids and families she worked with. Yet knowing my good friend so well, I could sense her deep concern even from a distance.

Late in the afternoon Kelsie bolted toward me—cell phone in hand—across the ranch’s main yard. Even before she spoke, I could see by her expression that she was equally elated and amazed. Her words poured out in an excited jumble of relief and astonishment.

Sarah, my friend who as a young girl had helped me build the ranch, was now a veterinary technician working with Dr. Shawn. She’d just called and explained to Kelsie how she was routinely bringing the x-rays up on a computer screen in their darkroom before Dakota’s surgery. Sarah explained that when she realized
what
she was seeing, an electric surge rose from the soles of her feet and exited the back of her neck, jolting her thick, blond hair into needling hackles.

On the x-rays, materializing out of the darkness like a milky phantom, was an image of pure evil. Finally the source of Dakota’s four months of continuous suffering was fully revealed. Having passed through the dog’s throat and beneath her shoulder blade, the lethal intruder was wedged against her spine. It was
an arrow
!

The triple-bladed razors of a two-inch stainless-steel broadhead floated into view, with an eight-inch section of graphite shaft
still
attached. The projectile lodged within her body was
ten inches long
. The protruding remnants of the shaft did not exhibit the splintering break of an accident. It was obvious that the arrow’s shaft had been intentionally and cleanly cut with a smooth edge just below the surface of Dakota’s throat. Someone somewhere had done this on purpose and then tried to hide the deed.

Yet what confounded us the most was that Dakota was able to
maintain the life of a normal dog with a nearly foot-long, razor-sharp weapon buried deep inside her chest.

How was it possible that she lived at all?

Because the arrow had miraculously passed through Dakota’s neck without severing any vital structures, Dr. Shawn knew it would be far too dangerous to try to retrieve the razored projectile the same way it entered. Instead, he opted to remove it dorsally through a large incision that he carefully made on her back. Once the arrow was extricated, Dakota made a complete and nearly instant recovery.

In no time she was bounding around the property. One evening while preparing for a ranch fellowship, I watched her as she bounced in delight, a knotted rope toy in her mouth. She had just stolen the treasure from a group of small boys who now chased after her with squealing abandon. From then on it was always easy to find Kelsie on the ranch. One only needed to follow the white dog with the charming black patch over her eye.

I look at that arrow, propped up in a green, enameled cup in my office, nearly every day. Sometimes when I’m on the phone, I pick it up and slowly spin it between my thumb and index finger. Without fail, I’m awed and a bit sickened by the horrifying destruction that three spinning razor blades can exact. I don’t wish to forget what this weapon looks like or stop imagining how it might feel if it were sunk into
my
chest.

When I look at the arrow, I also remember something else—how a dog, a wonderful creation considered to be man’s best friend, had survived the worst humans had to offer, was found, and was saved by the unexpected and persistent love of a stranger.

We’ve all made mistakes, and we’ve all said and done things we’re not proud of. Some of these choices can be devastating—an abortion, an affair, a betrayal. In some cases our missteps bring so much pain and shame that we push them down into our hearts and turn them into secrets. We bury them like old bones, hoping to plant them so deep that no one will ever find them.

The problem with hidden sins, however, is that they don’t ever go away. Sooner or later these sins
will
ruin us. Attempting to conceal a sin is no less harmful than choosing to ram an arrow of selfish rebellion into our own chests. Once the infection sets in, it festers and spreads, eventually leading to our destruction.