A little dog is tossed out of a car and pelted with rocks. It is rescued, shaved to remove hundreds of ticks – and found a home.
Nearly all the dogs I know are rescues. Some are mutts, others pedigree. Some deliberately ran away from unhappy homes, casting their furry selves upon the kindness of strangers. Others were walked out on, dumped on a lonely country road or slipped off their leash downtown to dodge traffic.
Some people just move and leave the family dog behind confused, hiding and miserable under the house unable to answer the cruellest question of all.
"What did I do wrong?"
For every unhappy ending there are many happy ones. The dog rescue societies of the world are up there with Medecins Sans Frontieres, UNICEF and Amnesty International – yet their achievements are so rarely sung.
Out into the rain these selfless souls go, following up a sighting of a cowering, terrified abandoned pooch. Sitting at a hospital bedside reassuring a dying owner that their precious pet will continue to be loved. Scouring the pounds for dogs who have reached their cut-off date, with only the needle awaiting them.
Instead of a cold friendless pound, foster parents will often step in until a permanent home is found. These people have a special corner of heaven reserved for them. It has fields full of wagging tails to greet them and soft noses to kiss them goodnight. Their job is to offer temporary refuge. Sometimes hundreds of animals will come through their door and out the other side. Sometimes a special magic happens and they stay.
At Christmas I organised a fundraiser for my local dog rescue. Shout Your Dog a Selfie with Santa was a joyous occasions. Every breed from chihuahuas to Irish wolfhounds bounded through the door.
Most surprising was the number of young – and not so young – single men who fronted with their cherished hounds, most of which had been adopted. The adopters ranged from young, pale and sensitive with a pitbull-cross to big and boofy, plastered in tatts, with a moodle. Some had made them special Christmas outfits that only a bloke could have come up with.
A single girl (or boy) looking for love could do a lot worse than join her neighbourhood rescue society.
I recently watched a group of menacing young men swagger their way along the shoreline dressed in the kind of gear you normally wear to a knife fight rather than a beach. People got out of the way as their bad vibes preceded them down the sand.
Suddenly a collie crossed their path. The owner nervously called it back as the biggest and baddest of the bad asses stopped and stared through his Terminator shades at the innocent animal. Then, as we watched helplessly, a single word came forth from the mouth of Mr Evil.
"Lassie!"
A woman emerging from the ocean thought she recognised the dog as a stray that had been wandering the streets of Byron Bay with a piece of rope around his neck. Months after being scooped up, overhauled by the vet, fed up, rehabilitated and made to feel safe, he was now in his forever home and free to race across the sand and into the waves.
The bad boys all gathered around for a pat. Lassie licked hands with skull rings and smiled at the cut off leathers. When you're a dog you never leap to judgment. You're too busy leaping for much more useful things, like a frisbee.
Valerie Morton is a writer and freelance filmmaker.
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