48 Pounds of Uncertainty

I really, really wanted a dog.

Growing up, we always had animals—lizards, rats, cats, even a rabbit at one point—but my childhood dog, Trapper, was everything. I was just nine when my mom’s coworker brought a German Shepherd puppy into the office. That night, he became ours. Trapper stayed by my side until I was in my twenties, a loyal companion through all the upheaval of growing up. When he passed, life got messy, and for a long time, pets just weren’t in the picture.

But now it was time.

When Dad and I moved back to Orlando from New Orleans, I made sure we found a pet-friendly building. We’d been settled for a couple of months when a day at the Ren Faire changed everything. The heat and excitement caused Dad’s blood sugar to crash—fast. We ended up in First Aid. That moment got him thinking seriously about a service dog, though at the time, it was just an idea floating in the air.

I was ready before he was.

I talked him into going to “just look” at dogs. I’d already picked a shelter from my obsessive internet research, but when the afternoon finally opened up for a visit, that shelter had already closed. I did a quick search and found another nearby—one I hadn’t even considered before. By some miracle, it was the one day of the week they stayed open late. So off we went.

We met Ruby first—an adorable, playful puppy who might have had some pit bull in her. Unfortunately, our building has strict breed restrictions (totally unfair, in my opinion).

Then there was River, a giant black Lab who only wanted to love and be loved. He laid his head in our laps and tried to lick our faces, but his energy was off the charts. Our apartment wouldn’t have been fair to him. He needed a backyard like the one Trapper used to enjoy.

And then we saw her.

Scrawny. Underweight. Terrified. Hiding in the back of her kennel like she was trying to disappear. We approached the glass. Dad spoke softly: “Come here, girl.”

She looked up. Trotted over. Something in her eyes said, “Please help me.” There was fear, yes—but underneath it, a bright intelligence. A quiet hope.

The shelter staff brought her out to the yard. They called her Beauty. It suited her. She didn’t pull on the leash or try to escape. She just walked gently beside us, accepted our quiet scratches on the ears and chin. Her demeanor was… calm. Soft. Watchful.

Dad later told me he had no intention of bringing home a rescue dog that day. But in that moment, he looked directly at the staff member and said: “She’s the one.”

As they led her back to the kennels to get her ready, another woman approached the worker.

“I’d like to take her, please.” Five minutes later, and she would’ve belonged to someone else. She would’ve lived an entirely different life.

They brought her back to us just as we were signing the paperwork. That’s when we officially changed her name to Lady Priscilla.

She wore a flat red collar and a thin black leash. We walked her toward the car—and that’s when her fear overwhelmed her. Just a few feet from the exit, she slipped out of her collar and took off running.

Thankfully, she didn’t go far. She darted toward a concrete block wall near the building and froze there, paralyzed.

Dad ran for help while I crouched down and called to her gently, using the only name she knew.

Just as Dad returned with a slip lead, she walked toward me.

We helped her into the car. She didn’t know how to jump into the backseat, so we lifted her. I climbed in next to her, whispering softly as she curled into the far corner and made herself as small as possible.

I looked at her—hunched, trembling, 48 pounds of uncertainty—and thought: What have we gotten ourselves into?

I think back to that moment in the car all the time. Her pressed into the far corner, silent and unsure. Me, talking softly, wondering what we had done—if we had made a mistake in bringing home a rescue dog. If we were ready for this.

She didn’t know how to trust us yet. She didn’t even know how to rest.

Now, she tucks herself under tables in restaurants like it’s second nature (like she did in St. Augustine). She walks past strollers, scooters, and swarming theme park crowds with quiet dignity. She watches animatronic dragons with fascination, and chooses her toys not with excitement, but with discernment.

That terrified, trembling shelter dog didn’t disappear. She transformed. One step at a time. One bit of love at a time.

She’s no longer 48 pounds of uncertainty. Now she’s 68 pounds of quiet confidence. She’s Lady Priscilla. My emotional support animal. My dad’s service dog in training. The family member we didn’t know we needed and now can’t imagine life without.