From commentor Louise:
This is my rescue dog, Mackenzie. She’s a terrier-spaniel mix (we think) and in the picture, she’s enjoying a boat ride in Northern
I walked into the SPCA in Dallas, TX nine years ago and looked around at the enclosures. The first dog on my left was a kind I was allergic to. The dog on my right was, too. Then I looked at the enclosure right in front of me, and there she was, looking directly at me, quiet as a mouse. She had been dropped off by someone, so they knew she was about a year old, and her name was “Angel.” She was extremely thin and undernourished — about 15 pounds underweight as it turned out.
I took her home, and named her Mackenzie (with silent apologies to the person who had named her). For the first month, she didn’t make a peep, much less bark. It was immediately clear she’d been hit and kicked, as she cowered when hands or legs came at her from certain directions. On our walks, she was right at my side, shying away from most everything. Holidays were traumatic because of the large pumpkins or inflated Santas people had on their lawns. If anyone came to the house, she crawled under a table and shook.
But my roommate and I let her get used to things, and gave her lots of love (which, as most dog rescuers have experienced, was welcomed at any time, as long as it was us), and gradually, she opened up.
Mackenzie is now 10 years old, has lived in three states, has many dog and human friends, and — while she’s still neurotic about (a) men who don’t have a dog by their sides, (b) schedule changes, and (c) the dish her food and water are in (they must be plastic)
— she’s lived a happy life and made my life immeasurably better.
Before Mackenzie, I had only had pure-bred dogs from breeders. Now, I can’t imagine not choosing a mixed breed rescue.