About two hours into my shift, dispatch sent out a vague call: an elderly woman, alone in the woods, possibly confused. No name or clear location—just a general area.
I eventually found her, walking slowly with an orange cane and a homemade blue sweater. When I called out, she turned and smiled, like she’d been waiting for me.
“I think I got turned around,” she said, her hand shaking slightly as she reached for mine. She couldn’t remember her name or address—but when I asked if she had any pets, her whole face lit up.
“Pickles,” she said. “My little mutt.”
She’d followed him into the woods after he ran off—no coat, no phone, just love and worry. We didn’t see him at first, but as we turned back, she suddenly stopped and whispered, “I think I hear him.”
At first, it was silent. Then—a faint bark.
We followed the sound, quickening our pace. And finally, there he was—tail wagging, eyes bright. Pickles had come back.
She dropped to her knees, hugging him with tears in her eyes. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me.”
In that moment, nothing else mattered. Just her, her dog, and a love stronger than memory.