Rescued—In Every Way That Matters

By Kelly Rae Robertson, NCC, CCTS | Mindful Coast Counseling

If you know me well (and you’ve survived the experience), you already know I have a few serious passions. And if you don’t know me yet… welcome to the ride.

I’m passionate about grief, especially when it involves children and teens.

I’m passionate about helping first responders and veterans.

I’m passionate about victim advocacy.

And finally—I am wildly passionate about dog rescue.

Since high school, anytime I saw a stray dog running the streets, I’d carefully follow it in my car, trying to bring it to safety. That instinct to protect, save, and heal runs deep in me. And like so many things I love, it’s deeply tied to my dad.

If you’ve read my website or any of my blogs, you already know: my dad died when I was young. I was 12 when he got sick, and there’s so much I wish I’d had the chance to ask him.

One of those things? Why he loved dogs so much—and why rescue dogs were the only ones for him.

As a kid, I begged for a dog constantly. But my mom was blind and terrified to get one. Years earlier, she had tripped over my aunt’s dog and injured herself badly. That fear never left her.

But my dad—the quiet, steady, soft-spoken man who always stood up for me—decided to try to change her mind. And she finally agreed… on one condition from him:

We had to rescue.

I didn’t know the difference between shelters and pet stores, but I said yes immediately. So off we went—me, my mom (grumbling), and my dad—to a local shelter.

That’s where we met her.

A beautiful, broken, year-and-a-half-old collie-husky mix who had been returned multiple times. She’d been abused on the streets of Pittsburgh, had given birth to several litters, and would cry for her puppies, even long after they had all been adopted.

Her shelter name? “Demon.” Because of her eyes, one blue, the other half blue and half brown.

No. Absolutely not.

I renamed her Chelsey right there and then.

The first few nights with us were heartbreaking. Chelsey was petrified of everything and everyone. She didn’t trust us, and who could blame her? She’d only known pain. She’d only known fear. She had no reason to believe love was real.

But little by little, she began to believe.

She’d inch a little closer.

She’d let us pet her for a second longer.

Her eyes softened. Her breathing slowed.

And then, one day, I asked my dad, “Why doesn’t she bark? Aren’t dogs supposed to bark?”

He paused, then gently said, “Maybe someone hurt her vocal cords. Maybe she can’t.”

My heart shattered for her. My poor girl. She had been through so much.

And then one day, a car drove by honking its horn—and Chelsey threw back her head and howled.

It was loud and proud. It was like she was singing an opera that only other pups could understand.

That was her voice. Her language. Her truth.

It was funny. It was adorable. It was her. And just like her, it was sacred.

It was the sound of someone who had finally found safety. Who finally felt free enough to speak.

When I heard it, I cried.

Because in that moment, I knew that she knew she was home.

And it was through Chelsey that I started to learn more about my dad, without even realizing it. Chelsey pulled like a freight train on that leash, but I was determined to get her to calm down. My dad—ever the gentle fixer—quietly took the leash from me, probably thinking I was about to take flight behind her. He didn’t raise his voice or make a scene. Instead, he muttered under his breath, like it was a classified military secret:

“I trained dogs in the military. I can train this one.”

Wait—what?!  You trained dogs? I thought to myself.

Sadly, I never got to ask him about it.

Years later—long after he was gone—I started piecing things together. I was desperate to know more about him, and with no one to ask, I turned to the internet. I knew he had served in the Army and had been sent to San Pedro, California during WWII, but I didn’t know where he was stationed. So, I started researching which Army bases were active in that area during the war. There was only one: Fort MacArthur, the Pacific Fleet.

And then it all started to click.

Dogs were first used by the U.S. military during the Civil War, where they were commonly referred to as “hounds.” But after that, their use faded out—until World War II. That’s when the U.S. military reintroduced dogs into service under the formal designation of K9s.

And where did that modern K9 program begin?

Fort MacArthur!

The very base my dad was sent to.

He was there!

And those were the dogs he trained!

It felt like I had struck gold—like I had uncovered a sacred piece of who my dad really was. A rescuer. A soldier. A dog trainer. And unknowingly, the origin of my own deep love for dogs and second chances.

And then, one of the last stories he shared near the end of his life.

He told me that when the war ended and the soldiers packed up to head home, there was one problem: a dog named Veronica, who lived on the base, was being left behind.

“Wait!” my dad said. “What about Veronica?”

One soldier shrugged. “What about her?”

“We can’t just leave her here,” he said.

So, in typical Ray Robertson fashion, he didn’t. He saved her.

He scooped up Veronica, boarded the train, and brought her all the way home to Pittsburgh. She was black with a white circle around one eye. She became his companion. His family. His rescue.

A soldier and his dog.

That’s who he was.

His daughter, carrying the legacy of rescue.

That’s who I became.

Chelsey wasn’t just my first dog. She was my comfort, my companion, and my safe place.

When my dad was dying, I would hold her tightly and bury my face in her fur, using her soft coat to muffle my cries so my mom wouldn’t hear me sobbing from the next room.

Chelsey carried a piece of my dad.

And when I felt like I couldn’t breathe, she reminded me that I still could.

Since Chelsey, I’ve rescued four more—Boomer, Buddy, Sidney, and Bandit. But let me be very clear: they’re not just dogs. They are fluffy, floofy, sweet babies who happen to walk on four legs instead of two. They’re my children. My everything.

They sleep in my bed, take up more space than my husband, and have more blankets, too.

And honestly? My husband can always go sleep on the couch.

The dogs need the bed.

Because here’s the thing:

I may have rescued them… but they rescued me more.

Through heartbreak.

Through trauma.

Through loss, failure, and grief.

They have been the most loyal companions, the best therapists, the kindest souls.

And all these years after my dad served—after he quietly trained dogs for the U.S. Army at Fort MacArthur—dogs are still serving, just in a different kind of uniform.

Today, dogs are trained as therapy animals, and some of them even visit the Highmark Caring Place, where I volunteer, bringing comfort to grieving children. They sit still as gaggles of kids and teens gather around them, petting them all at once. It’s the most beautiful thing to witness: dogs offering calm and connection to children who’ve lost everything.

Even the Pittsburgh Police Department has an official therapy dog: Zane, formally known as the Pittsburgh Police Comfort Dog. He attends community events, visits schools, and provides comfort after critical incidents.

But perhaps one of the most sacred forms of service today is what these dogs are doing for veterans living with PTSD. Rescue dogs—yes, rescue dogs—are now being professionally trained to do far more than just offer comfort. These dogs are taught to recognize and respond to their veteran’s distress signals during a mental health crisis. They’re even trained to detect night terrors—and when they do, they gently pull the covers off their person, waking them from the nightmare and helping them feel safe again.

There are incredible organizations dedicated to this life-saving work:

🐾 Shelter to Soldier

🐾 The Rescue for PTSD

🐾 Paws of War

🐾 K9s for Warriors

They rescue the dogs… and the dogs rescue the humans right back.

It’s full circle.

Just like it was for my dad.

Just like it’s been for me.

So if you’re ever looking for someone to sit beside you in your darkest moments—who doesn’t need insurance, doesn’t cancel, doesn’t have a wait list, is accepting new clients, and most of all, will love you no matter what—go to a shelter.

Let your heart lead you. Trust me, you will find the dog that needs you… as much as you need them.

Because when we set out to save someone or something, they’re the ones who end up saving us.

—Kelly Rae Robertson, MS, NCC, CCTS

Grief, Trauma & EMDR Specialist

Owner & Founder, Mindful Coast Counseling

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The content of this post does not replace professional medical or mental health treatment or diagnosis.