My name is Lucy, and I was left to die.

On a dark stretch of I-95 in northern Miami, my body was thrown away like garbage. Maybe I was hit. Maybe I was tossed out of a moving car. No one knows for sure. What we do know is that when they found me, I was lying in the dirt, paralyzed and broken—completely alone and in agony.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t even cry. Cars flew by. No one stopped. No one saw me. Or maybe they did… and kept going.

One man drove past and thought I was trash. That’s what I looked like—trash. But I lifted my head. Just barely. And somehow, that tiny flicker of life made him stop. He turned his car around and pulled over. And when he saw me, really saw me, he realized I wasn’t trash—I was a dog. A dying one.

He called for help. It was almost 10 PM. State troopers and the Good Samaritan tried every hospital, begging someone to say yes. Most places were closed. Most wouldn’t take a case like mine. The odds weren’t just bad—they were impossible.

But someone was listening.

By some miracle, the director of my rescue was standing inside a hospital lobby at the exact moment that call came in. When the front desk answered and explained to her what was happening, she didn’t hesitate.
“Tell them yes. Bring her. Hurry.”

They rushed me in. It was an hour for this man to save me.
I couldn’t move.
I was incontinent.
I had no feeling in my legs.
They had to carry me with a hammock and manually express my bladder.
I was in pain. Trembling. Gasping for air.

And yet—I was still alive.

They rushed me into emergency surgery at the surgery center under Dr Steele, unsure if I would recover. No one knew if I’d ever walk again. And for a while, it didn’t look good. Days passed and nothing changed. I remained paralyzed. Still. Silent. Broken.

But they didn’t give up on me. The rescue didn’t leave me like the world did. The vet team cared for me like I was worth something. They spoke to me gently. They believed in me, even when I couldn’t lift my head. And then—little by little—I started to come back.

Muscle returned. Sensation returned.
And finally… I stood.
Then I walked.
Then I ran.

Today, I can do everything I was never supposed to do again. I can chase toys. I can run through the yard. I can jump up for kisses. I can wag my tail and play with other dogs. I can pee on my own. I am a survivor in every sense of the word.

But I’m still waiting.
Still without a home.
Still hoping someone sees me—really sees me—the way that man on the highway did.

I’m only about a year old. A medium-sized pittie mix with soft eyes and a gentler soul than most people could ever understand. I’m good with other dogs. I’m sweet. I’m affectionate. I’m still a little thin, but I’m healing more every day. All I want is to belong to someone. To lay my head on your lap and know I’m finally safe.

I’ve come too far to be forgotten now.

Please don’t scroll past me.
I’m not just another rescue dog.
I’m Lucy.
And I’m still here—waiting.