The Story of An Abandoned Dog, A Prayer, and A Second Chance

My first marriage was a mistake.

I was young and naive, and I missed the red flags everyone else saw. The few I did see, I ignored, but after five years of trying to make things work, I simply gave up. I had to accept the fact that my husband was a complete narcissist with both porn and drug addictions, and since he was the only person he really loved, there was no place for me.

Though miserable, I was too afraid to divorce him. I didn’t know how to live on my own, and I was scared, so I stayed. When the loneliness became too heavy, I began talking to God about it. I told him, “I just want someone to love and someone to love me back, unconditionally. Is that too much to ask?”

I did not perceive a reply.

My longing to have a relationship where I could give and receive love was so strong that I did the only thing I could think of to kill the loneliness. I went to the local pound and adopted a dog.

The shepherd-husky mixed breed I found was five or six years old. She was gentle, affectionate, and obedient. Whoever she once belonged to had trained her well. She seemed to like me, and I liked her, so I signed the papers, paid the fee, and led her to my car.

We drove first to the pet store so I could get the basics: food, dishes, collar, leash, and something for her to sleep on. Our next stop was a favorite hiking trail. We went for a nice long walk in the woods together. She was perfect. She didn’t pull, and she wasn’t yappy. She greeted people and other dogs on the trail politely and moved on. I could hardly believe it. She was a dream!

My husband didn’t have much of a reaction to this sudden addition to our home. He didn’t ask me where she had come from or why I made the decision to bring a dog home. All he asked was, “What’s its name?”

“Promise,” I said.

“That’s a dumb name,” he said. “It’s too hard to call a dog with a name like that. It should be a one-syllable name. Something cool.”

“Just call her ‘Prom’ then.”

He didn’t like that any better, so I explained to him why I chose that name.

“I want to name her Promise to remind me that no matter what I face in life, God has promised to be with me and bless me,” I said.

He was not moved, so, true to his nature, he did what he wanted to — ignored me and pushed his own agenda.

“We’re gonna call her Scar,” he declared.

I was angry but didn’t argue. I didn’t fight. What’s the sense in trying? I caved, just as I always had. I never won. I found myself rationalizing letting him name my dog the same way I rationalized all his behavior. The dog responded to the new name the same way I got used to being stepped on — by repetition.

Scar did sound tough, I thought. If anyone bugged me on the street or in the woods, I could make it seem like she’s an unfriendly dog. I could say things like, “Easy, Scar!” in my confident, strong, steady voice, just loud enough for them to hear, “Easy.” I’d hold her leash as if she was a threat about to lunge. Then I could look at the person and say, “Sorry, very protective dog,” and keep walking.

I created that fantasy in my head, all in a matter of moments, to justify letting this man walk all over me, once again. On the other hand, I tried out this little act more than a few times when we were hiking in the woods, and it always worked.

We were at the bank, trying to refinance our mortgage, when he began berating me, telling me what an idiot I was. I felt like something inside me snapped. I can’t say if it was my mind, my spirit, or what, but that night, I found myself on my knees in the dark of my kitchen, crying. Scar came over to me and lay beside me, placing her head on my lap.

I prayed desperately, asking to be rescued, for some sort of solution, for my husband to die in a car accident on his way home from work, anything to get me out of this hell. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I could not take his abuse anymore. I felt powerless. I had never lived on my own before and didn’t know if I could pay the bills on what I made. I didn’t know how to start over and suddenly realized that if I left, I would need to find an apartment that allowed dogs. I had no idea how things would work out, but I trusted that God would lead me. Somehow.

One day, after I found the courage to take legal action, a marshal came to the house to serve my husband divorce papers, and Scar and I left to start a new life elsewhere.

I found a new job, made some new friends, and discovered I could manage on my own just fine. Scar was all I needed. She cheered me up when I was sad, and kept me company when I felt lonely. She kept me safe when out in the world, and was always happy to see me when I returned home. On the weekends, we took long scenic drives, her head out the window, eyes squinting against the wind, with just a hint of a smile.

Scar was my constant companion and made no unreasonable demands of me. She was happy to be with me, and I with her. She was with me when I got lost on an unfamiliar trail at dusk. She was with me the day I totaled my car and smashed my head on the windshield and the day I got remarried, wearing a wreath of flowers around her neck that I made for the occasion. She was with me when I bought a new house, when I discovered I was pregnant, and was waiting for me the day I came home with my son, gently resting her head on his tiny feet as I held him in my arms. She was my loyal friend through the good times and the bad — the best friend anyone could ask for.

I called the vet’s office to let them know we were on our way and that it was time, but first, I took Scar for one last visit to the reservoir we frequented. I wanted her to feel the sunshine on her fur, smell the water and the field grass, and remember the majesty of the oaks and the maples we once lingered under.

I wanted her to experience the beauty of the peaceful trail we’d walked countless times, to speak the things that words could not. It was my attempt to repay her, to return to her some measure of the peace and beauty that she had brought into my life. It was the least I could do; she was, after all, an answer to a prayer.

When it was time, I sat on the floor with her head in my lap, and as the sedation took effect and her body relaxed, I whispered my love and gratitude, not wanting to leave anything out. She had been my anchor during the toughest storms and brought me joy I did not expect.

As the second dose was administered, I remembered the name I had first called her by, and the reason I chose that name. At that dark and uncertain time in my life, God made me a promise that he would never leave me or forsake me. I wanted to call her Promise to remind me of that, but a man who didn’t love me changed her name from Promise to Scar. I could now see how profound this change was, and I spoke her proper name.

“Promise, thank you for all the unconditional love you’ve given me. You never asked for anything but my love and companionship. Thank you.”

And then she was gone.

I have never cried so hard. I bawled for an hour straight, sobbing so hard that I was at times breathless. Even now, as I write this nearly twenty years later, my throat constricts, and tears fall from my eyes. From my back window, I can see the place where her body is buried, wrapped in my old flower-print bed cover. Scar. Promise.

My gentle furry friend, lying under the ferns and oaks, saved me when I was broken, lost, and scared. Welcoming her into my life changed everything. Hope returned. I resurfaced from oppression’s sludge and started a new life built on love. A new husband, a new home, and three new children, too. I never saw that coming.

The memory of my time with Scar revives me, and her message remains clear. Scars tell the stories of our survival. Promises remind us of hope. Both are important.

Scars and Promises. Promises and Scars.

 Me and Scar, Photo by Doug Gawitt