Journal Wed April 10 2024

 A Streak of Gray on Highway 290

At around 5:30 in the evening, I was traveling from Austin to Houston, starting a grueling seven-week work trip where I would only be home on weekends. The journey was mundane, set against the backdrop of clear skies with the monotony broken only by the narration of an audiobook. However, a growing sense of unease began to gnaw at me—a familiar anxiety tied to the endless weeks of travel that lay ahead.

Amidst these introspections on Highway 290, an event unfolded that would not only halt the crescendo of my anxieties but also steer my perspective toward a profound realization. A gray streak flashed across the road, a fleeting shadow against the asphalt until a black SUV intersected its path. Time dilated at that moment, allowing me to witness the dog's flight through the air and its subsequent disappearance into the median. A sinking feeling took hold; I was convinced of the inevitable—that the dog lay dead.

That poor dog is dead, I thought to myself.

In this moment of time when the world seemed to stand still, I debated what I should do.

It is heartbreaking, I told myself. But there is nothing I can do.

I don't think I can handle seeing a mangled carcass, I thought.

"If it is within my ability, it is my duty to help." These words, which I heard time and time again from my late Uncle John, resonated in my heart.

If one of my dogs were involved, I would want someone to inform me of what happened, I thought. Besides, if, by some slim chance, it is alive, it will need comfort. I would like someone to show kindness towards one of my dogs.

I knew that I might be headed back to a gruesome situation and would need to bolster my resolve. All of these thoughts came in an instant when time stood still. It all added up to a spiritual nudge, which I identify as the Holy Spirit. This compelled me to turn back.

Navigating back to the scene was no small feat, driven by a mixture of hope and apprehension. As I neared the location from the opposite direction, the dog, came into view. Contrary to my fears the dog was alive, her eyes meeting mine with a mixture of pain and a plea for help. Her tongue, stained a vivid red from her injuries, was the only immediate sign of trauma.

Without hesitation, I stopped my vehicle, my heart racing. The tag on the dog was visible, and with trembling hands, I dialed the phone number inscribed on it. The name "Dixie" was written on the tag, and I didn't need to get very close to read it and make the call.

The person on the other end of the line was initially relieved to hear from me, as she was aware that her dog, Dixie, was loose and was grateful to hear that I had found her. However, her relief was short-lived when I informed her that Dixie had been hit by a car. Her voice changed, filled with worry, as she told me that she was currently in College Station, but her mother was already in the truck looking for Dixie and was not far away. She said she would contact her mother and be there soon.

As I knelt beside Dixie, I felt a sense of calm despite the risk of approaching an injured animal, especially one in shock. Dixie, an Australian Cattle Dog or Blue Heeler, was a sight to behold despite her dire circumstances. Her fur, a canvas of bluish-grey dappled with dark grey streaks, was softer than it looked. The delicate tan markings around her muzzle framed her face, drawing attention to her alert, yet pained eyes. Remarkably, aside from the stark red of blood coloring her tongue — a vivid testament to her injury — there were no apparent external wounds.

As time passed, a truck pulled up, and a man wearing a straw-colored cowboy hat offered help. The man stood with me and blocked his truck so cars streaming down the highway would either slow down or change lanes. Though we didn't speak much, his presence was comforting. As I was inspired to stop for Dixie I felt this man was inspired to stop for me.

We had a plan in case someone didn't show up soon. Our plan was to move the dog and take her to the vet. However, we didn't need to execute the plan because shortly after, another truck arrived. It was Dixie's owner's mother, who had the weight of worry and gratitude on her shoulders.

Dixie's person, who was not nearby but in College Station, Texas, expressed her gratitude through a series of texts, keeping me updated on Dixie's condition.

As I drove away, I called my wife who asked me to pull over as she sensed that the experience had affected me deeply. We said a prayer for Dixie and her family over the phone.

The news that Dixie would recover, though she needed to stay overnight for observation, brought me immense relief—a relief that felt like an answer to the prayer my wife and I shared over the phone in the midst of this ordeal.

On an ordinary day, this experience highlighted the importance of compassion and the fragility of life. This moment not only presented an opportunity for Dixie's survival but also provided me with a sense of purpose during a difficult time. It reminded me that by helping others, we can find inner peace. Even in the midst of chaos, extending kindness can make a significant impact.