Man's Best Friend
part one
I can’t imagine going through life without a good dog along the way. I’ve been blessed with some great ones—Blue, Spot, Cain, and Wylie were my favorites. They’re the ones I still miss.
Cain came to us differently. He didn’t arrive with a wagging tail or a breeder’s papers. He entered our lives in an act of desperation—and we welcomed him in an act of compassion.
We were living in a rural area at the time, the kind of place where people felt free to abandon unwanted pets. Some of those strays we tried to help. A pair of Dobermans stayed for a few days but proved too dangerously protective of my boys. A pit bull, bent on killing the neighbor’s calves, forced our hand in a harsher way. But Cain was different. He was welcomed. And he stayed. And he became family.
He showed up in the middle of winter, a dirty sack of white fur stretched thin over a worm-riddled skeleton. Barely able to stand, he somehow found his way into our garage—a little refuge from the cold—and curled up in the corner, a shivering pile of bones waiting on death.
I found him there one morning. He lifted his head, barely, and looked up at me with pleading eyes. I knelt down, gave him a gentle pat, and said, “Let’s see what we can do for you.”
I honestly didn’t expect him to live. But we decided to give him a chance.
I put out a bowl of water, drove into town, bought some dog food, dewormer, and a rabies shot. Then I came home and played country vet. He didn’t resist—not because he enjoyed the poking, jabbing, or the horse-sized pills I shoved down his throat—but because he simply didn’t have the strength. He was barely holding on.
I laid out an old blanket for him and left the garage door just high enough so he could come and go. But he didn’t. For days, he hardly moved except to sip a little water or nibble a bit of food.
Then, slowly, he began to come back to life. He started to fill out. His eyes lost that dull, distant look. He took a few short walks. Let the boys play with him. Let me scratch his ears without flinching. He was going to make it.
Now he needed a name.
We ended up calling him Cain—not after the biblical figure. At first, we didn’t think he’d live long, so we avoided naming him altogether. He was just “the dog.” Since canine was another word for dog, we modified it into his name - “Cain.” It stuck. A name born of low expectations, carried by love.
Cain was a yellow Lab, though clearly not purebred. But he had the sweet temperament Labs are known for. And he loved the water. Once he regained his strength, he’d jog with me up the road, always detouring to swim in one of the nearby farm ponds before dashing to catch up again.
He also loved to run for the sheer joy of it—wild, manic loops around the front yard while the boys and I laughed and pretended to chase him. He always played along.
Cain was always an outside dog. With six of us packed into a small house, there just wasn’t room for a big beast indoors. But Cain didn’t mind. The garage was his den, and the world was his home. He was never fenced in, never chained up—a freedom that would matter deeply a few years later. But at the time, there was no need. He never wandered far. Never chased cars. Never bothered the neighbors.
He came to us that winter, found a place to belong, and stayed.
