Layla

Some say we choose our dogs, but I believe sometimes, they choose us.

Mother’s Day of 2019, just a month after we had moved into our new home. I stood by the window, gazing into our small backyard. A feeling crept over me as I stood there—something was missing. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but our little homestead we were creating didn’t feel quite complete.

Absentmindedly, I reached for my phone and started my usual flip through Facebook, searching through marketplace and local Facebook groups - having no clue what I was searching for. After some time, mindlessly scrolling, I reached a post that no matter how many times I tried to scroll past, my fingers wouldn’t move—"Australian Shepherd/Border Collie puppies looking for their forever homes.”

Without hesitation, I messaged the family rehoming the puppies and arranged to meet them later that day. I wasn’t entirely sure why I was going—having an Aussie or a Border Collie had never been on my radar until that moment. Living in Wyoming at the time, it was hardly uncommon to see Aussies or Boarder Collies riding in the back of nearly every truck. It seemed as though every ranch had these dogs. Their high-energy, intelligence, coupled with their renowned herding instincts made them exceptional working animals.

However, we didn’t live on a ranch, our two-bedroom home and tiny yard didn’t exactly scream “ideal for a working breed.” Who was I to bring home a dog of this nature to a household that could scarcely be described as active.

But I went anyway.

When I arrived, I found the puppies huddled together in the back of a truck, tucked inside a kennel. Their small faces peered out at me, their uncertain eyes watching, their paws firmly planted inside. The husband and wife who owned them worked diligently, trying to coax them out, but each one stubbornly refused to move.

I stood there for a moment, waiting, observing. Each time the couple pulled one of the puppies out of the kennel they would quickly retreat back inside, not giving me an opportunity to look at any of them. Out of nowhere—a tiny brown and black puppy marched forward right up to the edge of the truck, coming nearly eye-level with me. Her intelligent eyes locked onto mine, scanning me with quiet curiosity.

She didn’t jump or whine for attention. She didn’t shy away or cower. She simply stood there, watching me.

Suddenly, I felt like I was the one being put on display, waiting hopefully for one of them to choose me.

Eventually, the other puppies started to emerge, tentatively stepping out of the kennel. Some wrestled playfully, others cautiously explored. Not one of them giving me a second thought. My eyes wandered between them, considering. Maybe I’d take home the fluffy black and white one bounding over its siblings. Or maybe the timid pup still lingering in the back would be the one.

But each time I glanced away, the little brown and black puppy pulled my attention back to her. She never stopped watching me, her gaze unwavering, her quiet confidence undeniable.

Sensing my indecision, the wife spoke up. “That one right there,” she gestured to the little brown and black puppy, “she’s a smart one. Always sitting off to the side, quietly watching, and observing.” My eyes turned back towards the puppy, sitting inches from me, her eyes still locking onto mine.

And in that moment, I knew—I couldn’t leave without her.

I took her home that day, introducing her to the family, we chose the name Layla for her, inspired by Eric Clapton’s song “Layla.”

Knowing Layla’s personality, as I do now, I realize what an anomaly that moment was, her seeking me out. She’s certainly not the type to seek out strangers. In public, she shies away from outstretched hands, almost offended that someone would dare to enter her space without permission. She’s independent, observant, and selective with her affections.

Bringing Layla home was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. While she is selective of her affections to others, her love for our family is endless. She may turn from others in disdain, but she gives her heart to our family.

Even though she doesn’t live on a ranch herding cattle from dusk until dawn, she doesn’t seem to mind spending her days eating pup cups from Starbucks and lounging on our beds watching The Discovery Channel. She’s been my shadow, my adventure partner, and my daily source of laughter.

They say dogs are a reflection of their owners, and maybe Layla saw something in me that day —an adventurous spirit, a curiosity for the world, or maybe she just thought, “yeah, that lady definitely doesn’t work as hard as these ranchers do, I’m going home with her.”

Either way, I’ll always be grateful that she chose me.