A few weeks before Thanksgiving, a couple surrendered three small dogs to a rescue where I volunteered. One of them was Lexi, a too-thin balding terrier mix. She was sweet but understandably confused and scared. The rescue was en route to Zion National Park, where the couple was headed as part of a multi-year RV trip they’d embarked on two months earlier. Their plan was to take all four of their dogs with them on the adventure. Something made them change their minds about traveling with the dogs. I suspect the endeavor was more difficult than they anticipated. Not all dogs like to travel. The constant motion, fluctuating temperatures inside the RV, and stress of being uprooted from their home may have caused the dogs considerable stress. Add to that the difficulty of managing so many pets throughout a long trip. I don’t think the couple knew what they were asking of their dogs or of themselves.

Lexi came to our home to spend Thanksgiving weekend with us. Another family had been fostering her, but they had a guinea pig. Lexi’s strong prey drive made that situation difficult for the fosters to manage. The day I picked her up, Lexi was dressed in a pale pink sweatshirt with the words “ROYAL FASHION PRINCESS” printed on the back in fat, glittery black letters. The acrid smell of floral laundry detergent wafted from the diminutive garment but failed to conceal the pet odors permanently embedded within it.

This is just for the long weekend, I told myself. When I learned about what Lexi had been through, I wanted to give her the best Thanksgiving she could have under the circumstances. Our home was calm and quiet. My husband Jon and I could give Lexi our undivided attention. I could focus on getting her to eat—she hadn’t eaten well since being surrendered—and I could begin assessing her apparent health issues. Bouba and Kiki had only been gone for a few days. It was, at once, too soon to have another dog in the house and exactly the right time to have another dog in the house. I don’t know how to describe our home without dogs other than to say the space feels heavy, lifeless, devoid of resonance—like someone playing a piano with one hand while muting the strings with the other.

It was, at once, too soon to have another dog in the house and exactly the right time to have another dog in the house.

Who do we have here, Jon asked when I got home with Lexi. He found her sweatshirt amusing, especially because it was far too small for her. Most of her long body was left uncovered, giving her the appearance of a teenager who’s shot up suddenly but is still wearing their old clothes. In fact, I had something similar as a teen—a pink Oklahoma Joe’s sweatshirt whose coverage of my arms and torso became increasingly insufficient during a growth spurt, but I loved it so much I had trouble parting with it.

We settled in on the sofa. I wrapped Lexi in a blanket and turned on the news. She fell asleep. The back of her ears, head and neck were bald save for a few scraggly hairs. I cried silently as I thought about Bouba and Kiki and about the scared but trusting little girl dozing on my lap. For two days, we spent the majority of our time like this. When I wasn’t walking, feeding or grooming her, Lexi and I were relaxing on the sofa watching news programs. (Russia hadn’t invaded Ukraine yet, so the news was still relatively palatable.)

My feelings vacillated between happiness tinged with sadness and sadness tinged with happiness. I think Lexi had similar emotions. Her naps were punctuated by bouts of whining, crying, and exploring the house as if she would find her old life in one of the rooms. Incrementally, she came to understand that she was in a new place. Her other life wasn’t behind a closed door. Her former guardians weren’t going to pull up in the driveway, eager to see her again. The dogs she lived with and adored were somewhere else. The familiar sights, smells and sounds of her home in Texas were nowhere to be found. By the third day with us, she had stopped searching for her past. She had also started eating, which was a relief.

We began going on outings so I could do informal temperament testing with Lexi and see how she reacted in different environments. How would she do with people, with other dogs, with cats, and with wildlife? Would she be comfortable in expansive natural areas and in congested suburban spaces? Did she like water? Was she afraid of cars, side-by-sides or scooters? Did certain situations scare her? I created a spreadsheet to keep track of my findings. I hoped to provide potential adopters with information that would help them determine if Lexi was the right dog for them.

We took Lexi to Home Depot, Petco and Star Nursery. We visited Red Hills Desert Garden, Confluence Park, and a busy city park whose name I forget. She navigated every situation we encountered with ease, and people gravitated to her wherever we went. There was something uniquely lovely and disarming about her. Folks became emotional and opened up in her presence, mostly about dogs they’d loved and lost, but also about their lives and experiences, their hopes and fears. It was beautiful to watch Lexi bring that out in people.

We got her toys. We got her clothes. We got her puzzle games. And treats. And dog beds. And blankets. She could take them all to her new home, we reasoned. We discovered that she loves bully sticks and yak chews (a hard-cheese treat) most of all. She plays with them like toys, throwing them across the room and retrieving them before gleefully throwing them again. She even sleeps with a yak chew every night, cuddling it like a baby.

We learned that she likes to tuck herself in beneath a small blanket. We learned how tiny she looks when curls up to sleep. We learned that she loves smelling the world more than anything. When she seemed anxious, a slow sniffy walk immediately lifted her spirits. Wildlands surround our home in Southern Utah. There were myriad scents for Lexi to experience—many for the first time in her life.

Two things quickly emerged about Lexi: the first was her curiosity; the second was her fragility. I remember the day I first bathed her. I removed her sweatshirt and was afraid I’d break her in the process. I ran my fingers along her protruding ribs, her knobby vertebrae, and her soft, concave stomach. Energized by static electricity, the scant hair on her back pulled up and away from her skin as I coaxed the sweatshirt over her head. Overcome, I pulled her close and held her tight—something dogs don’t always like but she seemed to welcome—before carrying her to the bathroom.

Her fragile body made her curiosity even more remarkable. Despite her health issues and what she’d been through, she met the world with great interest. Even when she felt nervous or unsure, she wanted to know more about whatever she was encountering. Her curiosity helped her transition from her old life to her new one. Jon and I delighted in seeing her experience the world she was in now, the one we were helping her navigate.

Despite her health issues and what she’d been through, she met the world with great interest.

After the long weekend, Lexi stayed a few more days so she could see our veterinarian. We hoped to learn the cause of her weight loss and hair loss. During the appointment, we learned that her health issues might be more complicated than we anticipated. I wanted to keep her long enough to pay for additional medical assessments and treatments, but I realized that was beyond our role as fosters.

We discussed adopting Lexi ourselves but felt like it was too soon to make that commitment to another dog. We decided to pass Lexi’s medical information along to the rescue and continue fostering her until she was adopted. I took photos of her for Petfinder and emailed them to the rescue. Five minutes passed. I paced around the room. I looked at the photos. I looked at Lexi, who was attentively perched nearby. She resembled a troll doll with her wispy, cobweb-like facial hair and short, fine body hair. Her eyes were especially striking. Central heterochromia gives her irises the appearance of two chestnuts whose skin is catching the light on a sunny day. Dark pigmentation on her upper and lower eyelids resembles thick, almost goth, eyeliner. She stared at me with those dramatic eyes and with such clarity, innocence and trust my heart nearly burst.

I sent a feverish email to the rescue, then bolted out the door with an adoption form and a check. I drove straight to the rescue’s adoption center and said we wanted to adopt Lexi. It may have been too soon, but I didn’t want her to go to a home where her medical issues might not be addressed. I didn’t want her to go anywhere. I knew we could help Lexi in ways we weren’t able to help Bouba. It felt right for her to stay with us.

When I got home, I made a beeline for Lexi. Jon asked if she was ours. I said yes, but the truth is we were hers. We still are.