It was supposed to be a normal day—chores, a little work, some dog companionship.
Lainee, our Australian Shepherd, was being a dream—walking at heel, checking in, responding immediately when called. Oscar, the Beagle, was sticking close too, nose to the ground but never too far. They’ve both just turned one—technically not puppies anymore, but still very much in their teenage phase. Individually, they’re wonderful dogs. Together? They share about one brain cell, and that’s when the drama starts.
We’d been careful with them lately. After a minor disappearing act a couple of weeks ago, they were on tie-out duty during chores. But they’d earned some trust back, and that morning, they were doing so well. I let them help.
One minute, Lainee was trotting at heel, Oscar looping nearby. The next—I looked down, and they were gone.
At first, I wasn’t too worried. They like to play in the woods, but they’ve always checked in or come when called. I went inside, grabbed a late breakfast, and hopped on a work meeting.
But after the call, they still hadn’t come back.
Three hours later, no dogs. No barks. No rustling in the woods. No sign. I started calling in earnest, looping through our normal spots. Still nothing. My sister got home, and we jumped in her truck to cover the back roads and low-maintenance trails. The corn is high this time of year, so unless they were along a road, the chances of actually seeing them were low.
Still, we searched.
And my brain? It spiraled.
Oscar had a new collar—a no-slip martingale type—because he’d managed to escape before. I had just put it on the night before. Now I couldn’t stop thinking he’d gotten caught somewhere, the collar holding tight. What if he was stuck? What if he’d strangled himself? What if Lainee couldn’t leave him?
The only thing keeping me from a full panic was that they were both missing. Surely if something had happened to Oscar, Lainee would have come home by now.
We drove a stretch of road, circled back to the house, searched every building, walked the woods, checked under porches and empty sheds. I even called the sheriff to see if anyone had reported two overly friendly dogs wandering together. Nothing.
We stopped at the home of the one neighbor who always worried me—the type who isn’t exactly dog-friendly. I found out he’d recently been injured and was in the nursing home. A strange kind of relief, but relief all the same.
But that’s when something unexpected happened.
Lying in the middle of the gravel road near that same house were two tiny kittens. Still. Silent. Barely alive. They looked about 12 weeks old, and they were emaciated. Bones and skin. No energy to run. So thin not even the fleas or ticks wanted them. Just up the hill were several other cats—shiny, plump, clearly fed. But these two? They had been left behind.
We couldn’t leave them either.
Quick trip back to the house for cat food and a kennel. When we returned, the kittens were still there—curious, but cautious. The little girl was easy to catch once she found the food. The boy fought harder, biting my sister hard enough to leave a mark. But soon they were both in the kennel, devouring the food like they hadn’t eaten in days.
We’ll check with the neighbors, but we’re confident these two were dumped. They were out in the fields while the healthy cats stayed close to the barns. These kittens didn’t come from the same place—or if they did, they weren’t being cared for. One has a respiratory infection. Both were starving.
And if they do belong to someone, well, they aren’t feeding them. We’ll gladly take them off their hands.
Even as stressed as we were about the missing puppies, there was never a question. We couldn’t leave the kittens there to die.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, my sister quietly said, “Maybe the puppies got lost so we could find the kittens.”
And that hit me.
I’ve always had this belief—sometimes quiet, sometimes loud—that things happen for a reason. Not always a good reason. Not always a clear one. But a reason all the same. In my more analytical moments, I call it connection. In my softer ones, I call it grace. Darrell used to call it “the one who steers our ship.” For me, it’s the Universe. That’s my God, I guess.
So I said it out loud, just in case the Universe was listening:
“We’ll care for them all. The kittens and the puppies. Just let them come home.”
We printed flyers. We posted online. We ran to town and grabbed food, trying to stay busy and not fall apart. My sister stayed optimistic. I spiraled further. They’d been gone nearly nine hours now. I started listing the only scenarios left: someone picked them up and would call in the morning. Someone brought them inside. Or… something terrible had happened. Drowning. Coyotes. The collar. My brain wouldn’t stop.
As night fell, the hope in our voices dimmed. I kept saying, “If something happened to one, the other would come home.” The fact that they were both still gone was the only thread I had left to hold.
By 11 p.m.—twelve hours gone—we gave up. Thunder rolled in. Lightning cracked. Winds hit 60 mph. I crashed on the couch, thinking about our poor puppies, alone in the storm.
I didn’t sleep.
At 3 a.m., after the storm had passed, our Great Pyrenees let out a single bark.
Not an alert. Just… a bark.
I opened the door.
Lainee hit the porch at a full run. Soaked. Cold. Scared out of her mind. And instantly apologetic, like she knew she was in trouble. I yelled for her and pulled her into the house.
And then turned, heart pounding.
Oscar wasn’t there.
That was the moment I broke.
I collapsed, sobbing. I killed my dog with that stupid collar. My sister was already out the door, flashlight in hand, calling. She tried to calm me down, reminding me that Oscar is slower. He always lags behind. But logic doesn’t do much when grief has taken over.
And then—
A howl.
Far off, but distinct. Beagle.
Not a cry of pain. A "Hey! I'm here!" or maybe "I found you!" or "Wait for me!"
My sister ran toward the sound. I jumped in the truck, headlights sweeping the road.
And before I even reached the end of the driveway—there he was.
Soaked. Muddy. Cold. Running straight for me, tail wagging.
He jumped into the truck like it was no big deal.
I had another meltdown. This one from pure joy.
Back at the house, we gave them baths. They were caked in mud and covered in ticks. Then, sometime around 5:30 a.m., we all crawled into bed. The puppies slept soundly. We… tried.
Today, we have two sleepy, grounded, leash-only puppies. GPS collars are on order. A proper kennel setup is in the works.
And two emaciated kittens now live in our house.
Was it all coincidence? Maybe. But I don’t think so.
I think sometimes the Universe takes a strange route to get you where you're needed. And if you’re willing to listen—even when you’re tired, even when your heart is breaking—it just might answer.
Even if it starts with two teenage dogs disappearing into the corn.
