My wife (then girlfriend) and I were driving my 18-wheeler through Nevada during a brutal July heat wave. After hours without seeing a single bathroom, we finally came across the only stop for miles and decided to sleep there for the night. Right beside the truck was a sign that read, “Next services 118 miles.” We were in the middle of nowhere, and the tiny, rundown gas station was packed nonstop with travelers needing a break.
Come morning, we stepped out of the truck to grab something to eat. Out of the crowd—at least 50 people coming and going—this one dog walked straight up to us, laid down, showed us his belly, and whimpered as if to say, “Please help me.” He was covered in ticks, severely emaciated, and so dehydrated that it took over a week of tiny sips of water and small treats before he could handle a proper meal or drink without vomiting. The vet told us that if we’d found him just one day later, he wouldn’t have made it. He was right at the edge of survivable.
This is him a few years later—when he figured out we were heading to the dog park.
