The Quiet Work of Loving Zuma

Zuma, our failed foster.

Love shows up in strange places. It asks for patience, presence, and a quiet kind of commitment. It asks you to stay even when nothing feels clear.

You might remember that I wrote about the passing of my soul mate, Yoda, a few months ago, and how a new dog, Zuma, arrived at the same time. I believe dogs hold a piece of our life purpose and help broadcast it so we do not forget. Zuma stepped into that role the moment she came into our lives.

I had no intention of adopting again. I was fostering in two-week rotations so I would not get attached. I offered the dogs sunshine, quiet, and cuddles before they were flown to places where people were more mindful about spaying and neutering.

Zuma arrived by small private plane. A volunteer couple flew her and her two siblings out of a high-kill shelter. They were due to be put down that same day. Nobody wanted black pitbull-lab mixes.

The moment she stepped off the plane, the woman placed her in my arms and whispered, “She’s terrified.” Zuma stayed pressed against me for hours. Once home, she was frozen with fear. She was about four or five months old and had never known anything outside a concrete kennel. Everything overwhelmed her.

Then she slipped out of the house and ran into the forest below us.

Those were the longest forty-eight hours of my life. I could see her and hear her crying, but she would not let me get close. A search-and-rescue volunteer set up cameras and a humane trap. We kept the doors open all night, hoping she would walk inside for food or water. We even brought in the owners of her siblings to try to draw her out. Nothing worked.

We took shifts. We barely slept. I felt responsible for her even though she was not my dog. All I wanted was to bring her to safety.

At midnight, during my break, my daughter let one of our dogs out, knowing Zuma was nearby. She came straight to him. We finally caught her.

She came home in shock. She did not move from the dog bed in the living room for four weeks. We could not touch her. She would shut down and flatten herself against the floor in the chimney. It was painful to watch an animal who did not want cuddles, did not want walks, and did not want any kind of interaction.

We contacted the rescue and were told someone might take her for intensive training. It never happened.

So we decided to keep fostering her. Nobody would adopt a dog like this. She would be surrendered again and probably put down.

We hired a trainer who came to the house. Small shifts happened. We put up baby gates so she could not hide. We hand-fed her so she would get used to being touched. Progress was slow. On the trainer’s advice, we started medication to help her nervous system come out of pure survival mode. Again slow progress.

People around us said it would be kinder to put her down. Maybe they thought they were right. I could not accept that. My daughter could not either. She deserved a chance.

So we adopted her.

Looking back, I think part of why I could not give up on her was simple. I saw how scared she was, and I wanted her to experience love at least once. I did not need anything in return. I stayed because it felt right to give her a chance.

Months later she was spayed, and our lives shifted to match her needs. She is still terrified, especially of my husband. He cannot go near her and he is heartbroken about it. When my husband is not home, I sometimes see her quirky, playful side. She plays rough with Obe. She sleeps on the sofa next to me. She curls up with my daughter at night. She is learning to give shy kisses. She stays on her medication. It is fine.

And I remembered something funny and strange. Obe, our office dog, once “requested” a girlfriend. He described her as black with a white patch, close to his size, and meant for him. Zuma matches that exactly.

I refuse to give up on her. She teaches me to trust myself and to stay committed even when results are microscopic. I found a somatic training course for dogs and started using the exercises with her. She responded. I think she never learned how to move in and out of fight-or-flight. So I focus on building her resilience one tiny moment at a time. I don’t think she was touched much either before we got her.

We’ve changed trainers. We enrolled her in socializing classes away from us and Obe. She still gets car sick every time. We take her out on the Blue Ridge Parkway anyway. She freezes at every sound, but she is also starting to sniff and follow scents. That is progress. Slow, steady, small. I celebrate every bit of it. And some days, it feels like she’s regressing and I’ve learned that too is ok.

Zuma turned one recently. She is big, heavy, stubborn, and sweet. She spends most days in my office while my daughter is at school. She listens to all my client sessions and readings. She is woven into everything I do.

I do not know if she will ever be a “normal” dog. She scares herself often. She stays wary of everything. Walks remain a challenge because she tries to hide behind bushes. Traveling is proving to be very difficult. We can’t just take off with her like we used to with our other dogs. It forces us to think differently about our plans.

Yet I have hope. I believe we will get her to a place where she might enjoy life in her own way. She reminds me to slow down and regulate myself. If I move too fast or tense up, she spirals. Loving her has shown me something important. The parts of me that once felt stuck, petrified, and terrified needed the same thing she needs now. Gentle love. Steady presence. Reassurance offered without pressure or demand. Staying with her helps me remember how to stay with those parts of myself too.

Love is a curious thing. It grows in places you never expect. It asks you to stay steady. It asks for your presence more than your perfection. And even on the hard days, it is worth it.

If this story speaks to you, share it with someone who needs a reminder that slow progress matters. You never know who it might reach.