I was in the house with my baby, watching through the window as my 5-year-old waited for the bus. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a black, wolfish-looking dog appeared at the bus stop.
Without thinking, I threw on my boots and sprinted down the street, calling for the dog to come to me. She looked intimidating—thin, scruffy, and a little wild—but as she got closer and her tail started wagging, I realized she wasn’t harmful, just desperate.
She was starving and thirsty, with no collar or tags. I called the pound to report that I had found her and agreed to hold onto her until an owner came forward.
The next day, someone reported her missing. In our tight-knit neighborhood, dogs don’t usually go missing, so I had my concerns. When I arrived at the owner’s house, she was outside—and to my surprise, she barely reacted to seeing her lost dog.
I asked about Mocha’s well-being, and the woman brushed it off, saying she was a “pain” and always ran away. Then, with zero emotion, she admitted they hated the dog.
I didn’t say another word. I turned around, walked away, and Mocha followed me home.
That was 10 years ago. She has never once tried to run away from us. She loves us, and we love her. She’s about 13 now, and our vet says she’s got many good years left.
We didn’t plan to adopt her—but in the end, she rescued us just as much as we rescued her.