It was an ordinary drive up I-75. I was in the left lane, caught between the ticking clock of an upcoming appointment and the simple desire to get there on time. As I passed a turnout, I noticed a state trooper parked off the shoulder. My heart skipped a beat—for a second I worried, but thankfully, no flashing lights, no sirens, just that subtle nod of acknowledgment: “Checked my speed—I’m good.” Relief washed over me.
Then came the moment that stopped me in my tracks. Just beyond the next sign for Exit 20, I spotted it: a small, trembling figure in the ditch. My heart sank as I realized it was a dog—scared, dehydrated, weak, unable to move. Everything else faded away. In that split second, the appointment, the time crunch—they didn’t matter anymore. Helping that dog did.
So I made the decision—one I knew might cost me time—or perhaps even a citation. I turned southbound and headed back to the turnout. When I arrived, the trooper was still there, engine off, standing silently by his car. I explained what I’d seen. His expression softened. “Show me where,” he said, and followed without hesitation.
Together we retraced my path. The dog lay beneath a sign, eyes glazed, panting softly. It was as though he’d given up—but hadn’t yet. Without missing a beat, the trooper grabbed a jug of water, poured some into his hat, and shaped it into a makeshift bowl. Dropping it gently near the dog, he watched as the animal sniffed, then paused—and then tentatively started to drink. Within seconds, that bowl was empty.
The trooper refilled it—and added a Little Debbie snack. The dog sniffed the treat cautiously but took a bite. He moved just a little closer.
Then something truly thoughtful happened. The trooper returned to his vehicle and came back with a folding chair and an umbrella, setting them down beside the ditch to offer shade and comfort. He told me he’d stay right there until the dog felt safe enough—with him—to be taken somewhere better. Maybe a shelter. Maybe even the trooper’s own home.
I stood there, watching in awe, thinking about how astonishingly simple kindnesses—water in a hat, shade on a hot roadside, patience without judgment—can change everything. That trooper understood there are moments when our greatest impact isn’t enforcing laws or writing tickets—but offering compassion when it’s needed most.
We later learned the dog was rescued and taken for care. Trooper Tudors of the Tennessee State Highway Patrol became more than a uniform—he became a reminder that even in the rush of daily life, a single act can restore our faith. We all need more of that, don’t we?