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When we’re adopting an abandoned pet, we think we’re doing something special. And we are.

I felt like a good citizen when I took in my first rescue dog: a toy poodle named Lucy. She was a charcoal bundle of joy, defying the ten years she had already lived. Six years later, kidney disease claimed her. When she got sick, my heart sank daily; toward the end, she was more like a gray bag of bones.

But every moment I took care of her, my character grew.

Harpo came into my life while Lucy was still on four feet. My boyfriend adopted him, getting an instant “Lucy-friendly” stamp of approval by texting me a photo of the pathetic pooch -- then called Waggles -- in full scruff. Despite the dinge, this rescue’s personality glowed through the photo.

Admittedly, Harpo played second Fido to Lucy until Lucy passed. But dogs do that. They find their place in the pack. Strangely enough, Little Miss 5 lb. Lucy was the alpha!

Everything changed when Harpo and I lost our primary companion. Harpo was alone again. I stepped in to rescue him.

But the truth is, he rescued me.

Lucy’s kidneys were failing. My boyfriend’s liver and bones betrayed him. Every day was a challenge. Then they were gone. Both of them. Within a year of each other.

Harpo’s goofy smiles somehow made me laugh through the thickness of grief. (Yes, Harpo really does smile.) And if that weren’t enough, his eyes, affectionate and innocent, penetrated my pain like healing arrows.

When my heart stiffens from life’s boot camp, I am lucky to have a fluffy white angel standing by to soften it.

It’s amazing what rescue dogs can do.

Has one helped you? Let us know!