We found Schaefer wandering the neighborhood in the dead of winter. He was painfully thin, every rib prominent, and his coat was thick and wooly and dirty. As with almost all the dogs we’ve rescued, he had no collar or identification of any kind. And he was scared to death. He rambled like a wolf on the prowl; he would sidle up to something rather than approaching straight on. He would eat whatever you gave him, and right out of your hand, but you couldn’t get a hand on him to catch him. How we finally captured this varmint is another story.

Summer came and with it tons of flies. The flies would get into the house when the dogs came in from a romp outside. And the flies would soar and dive-bomb me as I worked in the kitchen. One day, totally frustrated, I grabbed a towel and starting swatting at the flies—and I was pretty good at hitting them, too. But Schaefer, my constant shadow, disappeared.

This now 70-pound dog somehow managed to curl and contort himself into a tiny little ball of fur and legs and was hiding in the knee space under my computer desk, between the chair and the back wall. I almost cried when I found him there.

I can only imagine how many times as a stray that he was chased away, had rocks thrown at him, or had sticks or other objects waved as a threat. And who knows how he was treated at his former home. To this day he will disappear any time I go near a towel in the kitchen.

It breaks my heart to think he is afraid of ANYTHING in this house. This is supposed to be his safe place. I am going to work to show him it truly is his safe place. I think I’ll let him eat and shred all the kitchen towels.