I was driving to buy the morning paper when I noticed movement ahead. As I drew closer, I realized it was a dog. An English Setter, wandering aimlessly in the middle of the intersection. Cars swerved, horns blared, and her eyes were wide and lost.

I stopped my vehicle at the red light, opened the passenger door, and called, “Come on, girl.” She climbed right in. She was panting and flustered, but her coat was clean and freshly brushed. This was no stray. She had a collar.

Only three months earlier, I had said goodbye to another dog I had found wandering near the very same stretch of road.

I thought he was lost too, but later discovered he had been dumped. I told him that night as he rode home beside me that I would do my best to find his family. When no one came forward, he became mine. I named him Will after the road where I found him.

For a while, he seemed to understand he had been rescued, but it took nearly a year for him to believe he was home for good.

Now here I was again, sitting beside another dog found in the road, her breath quick and shallow, her heart racing beneath her ribs. I stroked her head and said, “It’s all right. You’re safe now.”

Her tag read Sophie. Beneath her name were two phone numbers, one for her owners and another for a national lost and found pet service. Someone cared enough to make sure she could be found.

I called her owners first. No answer. Then I dialed the pet service number. A woman picked up. She confirmed that Sophie was registered in their system and then came the surprise. “According to our records,” she said, “Sophie’s family lives in Missouri.”

Missouri? I looked down at Sophie, curled quietly in the seat, and shook my head. “You’re a long way from home, girl.”

For a moment, memories of Will came back. The same road, the same confusion, the same silence. My heart tightened. Had she been abandoned too? No. I could not believe that. She was far too well cared for. Someone somewhere had to be searching for her. I gave her some water, which she drank gratefully.

I drove to my house and got her out. My wife brought Will’s old leash. We walked and walked to let her stretch her legs.

Two hours passed. “Well, Sophie,” I said, “looks like we’d better get comfortable.” We went inside and sat.

The lost and found service kept trying to reach her family. So did I. No luck. Then, just as I was about to step outside and let her stretch her legs again, the phone rang.

“John,” the voice said breathlessly, “This is Sophie’s mom. Is she all right?”

“She’s fine,” I said. “And now, I am too.”

It turned out Sophie had not been abandoned at all. Her family had boarded her at a veterinary office while they prepared for their wedding that very day. Somehow, Sophie had escaped, probably in search of the people she loved. Between ceremony preparations and phone calls, it had taken a while for them to check their messages.

Within the hour, Sophie’s dad arrived. He pulled up in a dusty SUV wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a grateful smile. Sophie was on the leash when he hit the driveway and she dragged me across the yard toward his vehicle.

Watching that reunion brought back the ache I had carried for months after losing Will. In the beginning, I had wished someone would come to claim him, to prove he had not been forgotten. That moment never came for Will, but it did for Sophie.

Sophie’s dad thanked me profusely, gave Sophie a hug, and they got into their vehicle and drove off to join family on their special day.

I stood there, one hand raised in farewell, the other still holding Will’s leash.

I thought about the symmetry of it all. Two dogs found on nearly the same road, years apart. One stayed, one went home.

Both reminded me that compassion often begins in the smallest moments, a door opened, a quiet voice, a gentle hand. I had no way of knowing why those two dogs crossed my path, but I like to think there was a reason. Maybe it was to remind me that kindness is the best type of currency. And when we can, we should always pay it forward.

 

© 2025 John Moore

John’s, Puns for Groan People (a book of dad jokes); and two volumes about growing up in the South called, “Write of Passage,” are available at TheCountryWriter.com. John would like to hear from you at John@TheCountryWriter.com.