What I Thought Was Me Rescuing Her

Hope was more than my dog. Our soul bond changed how I understand love and trust. Our connection ultimately led me to the work I do today as an animal communicator.

Hope came into my life unexpectedly. I was in my first year of grad school, trying to balance everything. My boyfriend and I had just broken up. We had been living together in Boulder, and he was moving to the Western Slope with our dogs, Paige and Skye. Everything was shifting.

I knew I wanted a dog. Bobby reached out to the breeder where we got Paige and learned they still had one female left from her litter. She was a nine-month-old Border Collie. Ken the breeder had planned to put her on sheep but said she was not cut out for it. The irony is, I later put her on sheep, and she was amazing. It was what she was born to do and it was obvious.

Bobby and I hopped into our VW van with our dogs and went to pick up Paige’s sister. It was a cold and dark February night. The breeder met us outside. He was gruff and dismissive. Without much conversation, he led us into a shed-like structure to meet “Bess,” the name he had given her. I later named her Hope. There she was. In a cage. On a chain. There was a putrid smell—the kind that comes from neglect, from being left, not cared for. The attitude of this breeder was that a dog is just a tool—something you use. He insinuated that this sweet terrified dog was broken and would not be of any use. Her fear was palpable. I hadn’t even really seen her clearly yet, but I could feel it immediately—this poor dog had been horribly abused. In that moment, I knew she needed to be saved and I wasn’t leaving without her. What I didn’t fully understand then was what I was taking on.

When Hope first came to me, I couldn’t get close to her. She was afraid of doorways, sudden movement, and being approached. Everything was new. She had only known the abusive man and the cage. She had never experienced a soft bed or chased a ball. She had not known love or felt cared for. I would take her to Boulder Valley Ranch and let her run off leash, but I had to accept that I might be standing there waiting quietly for her to come back on her own terms. It was a challenge. I had classes and a schedule. There was no forcing her. If I got anxious, it only made things worse. Everything had to be her choice. This tested my patience, but when she ran free, something in her shifted. I could see it every time—the way her body moved and the look in her eyes. She was slowly connecting with her true nature. With time I saw more Hope and less of the trauma she came to me with. I learned to expect the wait, for her to jump into the hatchback of my black Saab, and in between the waiting and the returning, we were building something—not through control, but through trust and connection.

Loving Hope required me learning how to slow down—not just physically, but internally. I couldn’t rush her or override her fear. I had to meet her where she was. And at that time in my life, I was used to doing the opposite—pushing through and staying in motion. Hope responded to calm, presence, and consistency. If I was unsettled, even slightly, she felt it. And if I slowed down—really slowed down—she responded. There were nights I would let her out into the yard, and she would refuse to come back through the door. It was February in Colorado, freezing and often snowing. I would have to leave the door open and pretend not to care.

Over time, things continued to shift. It wasn’t dramatic but happened gradually. After a few months, we had fallen into a rhythm. She was settling in, and I began to notice small changes. I was a runner then, and we went out every day. I noticed she was reading me, anticipating every move. She knew our routes. She would stay by my side and stop at the same places without being told. Whether I was running or on my bike, she moved with me—she was my shadow.

One morning, I brought her with me to an early yoga class. I tied her up outside and went in. When I came back out, she was in the exact same spot—still, like a statue. The only difference was that she had chewed through her leash, hanging loosely around her neck like a neck tie. My friend and I laughed. She was so good—just waiting. Then I had a realization. She hadn’t run. She hadn’t pulled away. She had stayed. She trusted me and our bond.

During this time I became acutely aware of how we had grown. She stayed with me, not because she had to, but because she chose to. We had become each others safe place. Neither of us had experienced this kind of unconditional love before. Hope came everywhere with me and never needed a leash. Although I never did formal training with her, it was as if she could read my mind. She was exceptionally well behaved. Hope became my best friend. We traveled together—long cross-country drives, flights, new places. Eventually, we made our way to Hawaii. A friend once called her a unicorn dog. It felt accurate, and also she was my Hope.

She taught me that trust isn’t built by pushing something forward, but by allowing it to unfold. She showed me that connection can’t be forced. It comes from meeting someone exactly where they are.

In 2008, Hope and I were living on the North Shore of Maui. The sun was setting, and I was heading home when I noticed I was feeling unusually anxious. Hope kept popping into my mind. That was the night that Hope left her physical body.

I was gutted. I had never experienced a loss that reached so deep into my being. When I found her, I collapsed to the ground and yelled “no” from somewhere deep inside me, like I wasn’t even in my body. I felt so alone in my grief. How could the world still be going on around me?

Eventually, I came to see that this loss—and the cycle of falling into my grief—was a gift. This grief was, and is, not separate from our connection, it is a reflection of it. The animals that we have the privilege to bond with are our soul friends. They see us fully and completely. I had to dig deep to inhabit the hole of loneliness her death left in me. By befriending this deep grief, I leaned into a deeper knowing of myself, which eventually led me to work with animals intuitively.

What I thought was me rescuing her became something else entirely. I experience animals differently now. I notice them. I feel them. I listen with all my senses. I began to notice the relationships others had with their animals. My story is unique to me and Hope, but there is a common thread—animals enrich our lives in ways that run deeper than we often realize.

Today I am still living on Maui’s North Shore. My relationship with Hope is still growing. She has shown me that love never dies, we simply change form. In 2015, she sent me a Border Collie named Izzy on her birthday. I now work as an intuitive medium with pets and people. If you let them in, animals can be our biggest teachers and healers. It is an honor to work so closely with people and their animals. I love this work and the way it continues to deepen my connection to animals and the people who love them.