My foster dog arrived in June via an army of dedicated volunteers. Many hands played a part in his rescue, care, and transport during the 1,000-mile journey. Initially, he was shut down, but as he emerged from his shell, a litany of problems began to surface.

His proclivity to chewing on rocks and sticks, zealously eating dirt, and resource guarding told me much of what I needed to know. He was a street dog and had to fight for everything. He had no clue what to do with a toy or treat. He was terrified of people and vehicles, and is a known flight risk.

I’d never seen such a severe case of canine PTSD, with triggers that cause him to snap into hyper-vigilance mode. When I looked into his eyes, I wondered what horrors this one-year-old Belgian Malinois had experienced in his young life.

The Malinois rescue that I volunteer with works tirelessly to find a match for each dog. We were hopeful that this guy would find his forever home—someone familiar with the breed that would patiently continue his training. He was discarded by his humans and fearful of everything. I would have to earn his trust and that would not come easy.

I understand dogs such as this and the perpetual urgency to flee. In my younger years, I too was a runner. When loss, violence, and fear are the common denominators of daily life, the primal instinct of fight or flight takes over. I would run until my lungs hurt, or jump on my motorcycle and disappear. I sometimes retreated deep into the mountains; trusting no one, relying only on myself.

I’ve made a conscious effort not to be a product of my environment; to rise above adversity and try to become a better, less damaged person. To pay it forward in the only way I know: by giving voice and meaning to the most wounded, discarded souls. Admittedly, fostering or adopting a dog that isn’t broken in body or spirit has never been my choice. I always go for the scratch and dent varieties—the ones that are harder to place.

For months, my foster continued to make steady progress. Then, a trifecta of triggers created the perfect storm and he bolted, disappearing into unfamiliar territory. He was wild-eyed and panicked, and had gone into full-flight mode. We searched well into the night, but my heart sank, knowing he had reverted to his feral ways.

I notified animal control, law enforcement agencies, and rescue groups. I stopped delivery drivers and mail carriers, bombarding them with information. After systematically mapping out blocks of wilderness, we searched on foot over 20 miles per day. I carried bear spray on one hip, my trusty Glock on the other, plus a cache of survival accoutrements. We drove hundreds of miles; from door-to-door neighborhoods to off-grid locations, posting and passing out fliers. Entire communities shared information via social media and word of mouth. Friends, neighbors, and acquaintances assisted in daily searches, while complete strangers reached out to offer help.

There were no sightings for the first 7 days. Unbelievably, the first sighting was almost 20 miles from where he disappeared. Somehow, he made it over mountains and through wilderness teeming with mountain lion, bear, and other dangers I didn’t want to consider.

While searching, I took a fall down steep terrain. I was sleep-deprived, bloodied, bruised, and discouraged. We couldn’t eat or sleep thinking about how frightened and alone this dog must feel. Camping out from dawn to dusk at the last known sighting, I concentrated on particular search patterns while waiting for new information.

I was given tutelage on feral dog capture techniques by an amazing professional, who also offered these words of encouragement: “Don’t give up on him,” he said.

Eventually, my foster dog was spotted at the top of a trailhead by bikers and hikers; though he managed to elude us each time. There was a confirmed wolf pack on the same trailhead, so when there were no sightings for several days, I was worried. Besides searching on the ground, I also watched the skies, following vultures and crows wherever they congregated. I looked for their carrion with a pit in my stomach—because that was also a grim reality.

With hunting season on the horizon and temperatures dropping more each night, the situation became critical. By the 11^th day, I received a call that he had been located. Frantically, I drove to the reported area, only to find that he was on the run—again. I parked and raced down a footpath which paralleled a rapidly flowing creek.

Unacquainted with the area, the trail branched out before me in several directions. I blindly took the first trail to the right, leading to a covered footbridge. There, in the middle of the creek stood my lost dog. He looked at me, then turned to bolt. I crouched down and called his name. Stopping briefly to look back, his expression softened and something clicked. He recognized me.

He was emaciated, dehydrated, injured, and infected. His collar was missing. His eyes were sunken and had changed color. I barely recognized him. While I removed him from the creek and triple-leashed him, he devoured the kibbles that I carried in my pack. He was crying and licking my face. My husband raced to the area and as he cautiously rounded the corner and saw us, he too was in tears.

Unfortunately, not everyone was forthcoming with information on our dog’s whereabouts and his injuries were indicative of escaping his captors. His physical wounds will heal, but this dog suffered a psychological setback. Adoption would now be difficult or impossible.

After an emergency vet visit, we returned home and settled in for the night. Reflecting on all that had transpired during the past two weeks, I had an epiphany. I remembered that while our dog was found standing in the middle of rushing water, he had not been wet. As well, a couple had returned to our area from out-of-state for the one-year anniversary of finding their dog—at the precise time when ours was lost. They reached out to help us, as did a succession of their friends. They’d lost their beloved dog for 57-days and were instrumental in not only giving invaluable advice, but determinedly searching and offering daily affirmations of hope.

Life can be hard, but we are all on this journey together. An entire community was united by the common thread of finding a lost dog. We were no longer separated by political or religious views, race, age, social status, or divisive opinions. It gave me renewed hope in humanity at a time when it was needed most.

Everything happens for a reason, but some things simply cannot be explained. So I accept with gratitude that divine intervention played a key role in leading me to this lost soul. We’ve made some lifelong friends in the process and “Boomer” has officially been adopted. By me.

Welcome to your new life, Boomer. A life full of understanding, training, positive experiences, and unimaginable love.