Whitey, a hound cross, came to the shelter one day in early December. I met him the next night when I was volunteering, something I do every Thursday evening. The shelter workers left a note that I might not be able to take him out of his kennel because he was so nervous and may not come to me.

Of course, the sight of a scared, sad dog, surrendered by the only family he has known, was all I needed to see to convince me that I had to win this dog’s trust and show him he was safe. So, with a lot of patience and gentle words, Whitey came to me and we became friends.

There is always at least one dog at the shelter I gravitate to; the dog I worry about; the dog I think about on a daily basis. Whitey’s sadness, the fact that he was often reluctant to eat, and his refusal to go to the bathroom in the outside portion of his run, (meaning after the shelter closed, he would “hold it” until the employees returned in the morning), were all reasons I knew I had to help find Whitey a home – for him, for me, (the worrywart) and my husband, who was getting an earful of “poor Whitey stories.”

I saw Whitey at least once a week, and every time I saw him, I became more worried. The shelter employees were doing their best to coax him to eat, and they did what they could to make him as comfortable and as happy as he could be, but Whitey was obviously a special case.

He came from a home where he was only fed people food, and he was well trained, which would tell the average person that this dog was loved and well cared for. But then, at no fault of his own (his family was moving), he was brought to a place where his freedoms were obviously limited, his meals were the “dog food” kind, and the people he once counted on for love and care were nowhere to be found. Whitey was becoming depressed.

Finally, after 10 weeks, I got a call from Harvest Hills Animal Shelter. They knew I would want to know that Whitey had been adopted. Ironically, by Beth, the woman who was interested in adopting from a rescue I also volunteer at. Beth’s husband, Bob, had recently passed away, and she wanted a dog to help her heal from her loss.

She picked a beautiful but timid American bulldog named Mahari, rescued from a puppy mill, because she thought she could help Mahari heal as well. However, due to her timidity, Mahari needed a fenced in yard to prevent her from running away, and a family with another dog because that is all she has ever known.

I hated to tell Beth that we would not be able to adopt Mahari to her. So, I responded to her e-mail by telling her about a dog at Harvest Hills; a scared but sweet boy who, like herself, needed to heal from a loss. I was thrilled to hear that she had gone to meet Whitey and fell in love immediately.

I have talked to Beth several times since and she is the happiest she has been in a long time. Whitey has filled a void and she believes her husband in heaven sent him to her. He has lifted her spirits and his silly side puts a smile on her face. In fact, for half an hour each morning, Whitey and Beth wrestle before they get out of bed; Whitey pouncing on her feet under the blanket like a cat.

There are still sad moments for Beth of course, but now Whitey knowingly rests his head on her lap to comfort her during these times. In return, Whitey has Beth’s undivided love and attention to help him heal from his own loss. He now has his appetite back, is gaining weight and feels more and more at home every day. As Beth says, they were meant to find each other.

So, call it fate or call it luck, but anyway you look at it, two grieving lives found each other during their darkest moments. And then the healing began.