There is just something about Daisy. The wrong Daisy, as it turned out.

She came to us from a shelter in Roatan, Honduras that had been abandoned, leaving over 200 animals in desperate need of rescue. She was one of them. We had arranged to help a couple of dogs from that situation, but the dog named Daisy we had chosen wasn't her. When she arrived, we realized right away she was not who we had planned for. But she was here. And whatever mix-up had brought her to us, she was ours now.

I have seen plenty of dogs with scars before, but it was not until she had been with us for a while that I really stopped and noticed. She did not just have a scar or two, she had many.

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And when I learned the full story of where some of those scars came from, it sat heavy.

When rescuers first arrived at the abandoned shelter in Roatan, they found her injured, having been attacked by other dogs. She had likely been suffering for days and her injuries were severe enough that the decision to euthanize her right then and there was almost made. But something made them pause. They wanted to give her a fighting chance, even though there were concerns about whether she would make it.

She made it.

And that is when it hit me. Her body tells the story of everything she has been through, and something in me recognized it. I knew I had to take her home. Not forever, I told myself, because I already had too many animals. Just to give her a place to feel safe at night.

When she first arrived, she was bright and eager. She was happy to just be alive, and happy to just exist. Her name was truly fitting as she held her joy the way a daisy holds the sun. Daisies are sturdy flowers, the kind that grow in places you wouldn’t expect and still reach for the light. And somehow, she was the same, steady, resilient, and still reaching for the good in a world that hadn’t always been kind to her. But as the weeks passed, something shifted. The trust that had come so easily at first became harder for her to hold onto. It was as if her body finally felt safe enough to let the weight of everything she had been through catch up with her. We understood. Healing is rarely a straight line.

And then, just when we thought her hardest days were behind her, the medical challenges began.

During that time, she became selective about who she let close. Not everyone could reach her, but she let me. There is just something about being chosen by an animal who has every reason not to trust, that stays with you in a way that is hard to put into words. It's an honor.

We discovered she had not been fully spayed, and when we took her in to complete the procedure, her veterinarian found a cyst on her ovary. That was addressed, but it was only the beginning. Not long after, she had a fall and cracked her tooth and her canine had to be extracted. Then she ingested rat poison that had been carelessly left behind. Then she was again attacked by another dog. It was just one thing after another, each one manageable on its own, but together they painted a picture of a dog who simply could not catch a break. Every time we thought we had turned a corner, something new came up. She was poked, prodded, stitched up, and put under anesthesia more times than any dog should have to be. Every time I took her to the vet, I wished I could explain to her that I promised it was to help her. And every time, I worried that she would start to associate me with all of it. What if one day she looked at me and didn’t trust me anymore?

She never did.

No matter what she went through, Daisy always looked at me with love and trust. She knew I was her person. She had been let down before, and still, she chose to believe in me. Every single morning, she wakes up happy. When she firsts gets out of bed, she sometimes does this thing where she stretches out her front legs, lets her back legs drag behind her, and army crawls across the floor, letting out little alligator snapping sounds as she goes. I call it Army Crawl Daisy. She only does it in the mornings, like she is greeting the day with joy, saying she is ready to face the world. It is one of those small things that makes her completely, entirely herself.

She was not an easy dog. She was not the kind of dog who would walk into your home and immediately love everyone and everything. Like a person with a past, she had her own way of navigating the world. But if you were her person?

You would never be alone. She would follow you, adore you, protect you. You would be her entire world.

When she lets her guard down, when she leans into you and sighs, completely trusting, you understand how special she is. The scars you can see on her body are one thing. The ones you can't see, the ones on her heart and mind, are the ones she has had to fight the hardest to heal. She needed someone who understood that healing is not linear, that love is not just about the easy moments.

She found that person. That person was me.

I told myself I was just fostering her. I said it out loud, more than once. But the truth is, I could not let her go. Daisy found her forever home with me, and I would not have it any other way.

Some things happen by accident and turn out to be the best thing that ever could have happened. Daisy is one of those things. And in the mornings, when she army crawls across the floor to greet the day, I am reminded exactly why.

As it turns out...she was never the wrong Daisy after all.

Written in honor of my soul dog, Daisy Beth,

Martha

If Daisy's story moved you, you can carry a piece of it with you. A shirt from our Stories of Hope collection is available in our Bonfire store, with 70% of the proceeds going directly to the animals. It's one more way to be part of our work.