MANS BEST FRIEND
- gaymen2
- 1 day ago
- 3 min read
One day, someone threw a dog out of a truck in front of my house. They didn’t stop. They didn’t look back. Just dumped him like trash.
He was in terrible shape—ear mites, worms, open, bleeding sores from advanced mange. I already had two small Yorkies, so I didn’t let him past the yard fence. I was afraid of infection. But it didn’t matter. He crawled under the gate and hid beneath my shop building.
I asked my partner to remove him while I went to my evening dance class.
When I came home, I asked what happened. My partner said, “I fed him. He seems like a good dog.”
After that, every time I went outside, he followed me. Quiet. Watchful. Like he was waiting for something.
Then came the moment that changed everything.
One day I was putting my horses back into their pasture. One of them tried to run through the wrong gate. Before I could react, that mangy, half-healed dog sprinted around me, herded the rogue horse back, then guided the entire group past both gates and into the correct field. At the last gate, he stopped, turned to look at me, and waited.
As if to ask: Is that what you needed?
I went into the house and told my partner, “We’re saving this dog.”
It took four months of intense treatment—mange medication, worm and mite control, and patient care. After that, he was healthy enough to come inside. We named him Solo. Because he came to us alone.
The vet guessed he was about five or six months old. A mix of Australian shepherd and cattle dog. A working dog. A protector by nature.
We found out just how true that was.
Our neighbor owned several aggressive pit bulls. One day, one of them got into my fenced backyard. It came at me and bit me. Solo fought it off. He didn’t bark. He didn’t hesitate. He just attacked and drove it away.
I had to drive myself to the hospital. Animal control came. They put the dog down.
My partner handed me an ax handle and said, “Next time, don’t wait.”
A month later, two more of those pit bulls came at me—this time in my own pasture. I screamed. And Solo came running.
He fought both of them alone. I grabbed the ax handle and hit them in the face. Eventually, they left. But they had already torn Solo up. Deep wounds. Blood everywhere. But I was untouched.
He took the damage. Not me.
Animal control put those two dogs down, too. It cost me over $3,000 in medical bills—mine and Solo’s. The sheriff came to the house and told me plainly: “If that dog hadn’t been there, you’d be dead. Get a gun. Don’t let them back on your land.”
Solo was about 55 pounds. Not big. Not loud. He didn’t bark unless he had to. But he was fearless. He would lay down his life for mine without hesitation.
And I loved him for it.
We had him for 17 years. Seventeen. He passed in 2019 and there hasn't been a single day since that I haven’t missed him.
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