These raggedy old hands of mine sure aren’t going to win any beauty contests . Nope. No painted nails and manicured cuticles here.

My hands after a day of rescue in Fresno

They are more like a ten digit canvas of permanent dirt, scrapes and scratches, displaying the physical blemishes of nonstop use from over two decades of rescue work, strewn together with scars from fingertip to fingertip, palm to wrist, and then back again. My knobby knuckles shine with the polished pockmarks of far too many razor sharp needle teeth and overzealous pups and my weathered wrists display a smooth, lattice of imperfections laid down from perpetual encounters with precarious wire fencing and all manner of rusty surfaces south of the border.

I use my hands. A lot. And, it shows. Case in point is Mando, my most recent foster.

I remember the exact moment that I got the text message asking for help with Mando;  I was standing in my kitchen with my dogs, about to reach in a drawer for a bag of almonds. I heard my phone ding and saw that my friend from Fresno Humane had sent a text message with several photos.

The first  photograph was a close up of the front legs of a large dog. No face, no body, just  the legs from shoulder to floor.  I immediately saw two huge wounds which spanned the entire length of each leg. The cuts were as wide and they were deep, and there was bone exposed.

The first picture  of Mando’s face

I stood there for a few moments trying to comprehend exactly what I was seeing and then more images came through. The very next one was a side shot of  a big, goofy, sweet face. A face I would come to love and look at every day for the next  28 days. It, too, was covered in wounds; the entire circumference of his droopy muzzle was  covered in large red gashes and sore white crusts. There were also pictures of his ankles and wrists with exposed tendons and muscle, and pictures of holes in his skin all over his body the size of small saucers

 And so?

And so, as most often happens in exchanges like these with this particular friend in Fresno,  I took a deep breath and said “how quickly can he get here?”

That then set off a network of angels who swooped into action to get Mando up north  as soon as possible so we could begin treatment. Transport volunteers from Fresno arranged a rendezvous with transport volunteers from Santa Rosa, meeting up in a Walmart Parking lot somewhere halfway.

And, just like that, within about 18 hours of seeing that photo there I was, staring at Mando. Face to face, ready to put my hands  to work.

Healing Mando’s injuries would require daily bandage changes with intensive wound cleaning, dressing, and bandaging for 28 straight days. He could not just be stitched up surgically because too much time had passed since the injuries had first occurred. His body had tried to heal itself over several weeks,  resulting in large beds of infected tissue. It would be my job to clean that infection, promote healthier tissue to take its place, and allow the body to close back up at its own pace.

Mando was also painfully thin, with his skin tightly stretched over a large, bony frame. In addition to his wounds, he had pressure sores at all points where his body would have met the floor when laying down. A big part of his healing would be steady nutrition and the careful care tending to of those sores, as well.

Mando would require daily sedation for this care; to make sure he was not in pain, to minimize his stress, and to enable me to take the time necessary. An intravenous catheter was placed initially, and then replaced every few days, so I could administer the sedation easily and without discomfort.

As often happens with medical rescues requiring extensive care, Mando came home with me. That way I could provide the daily medical care he needed and also monitor him closely. And, my family and I could give him the safe space and TLC needed to heal from the inside out.

And so, each and every night, around seven PM, my hands would go to work. The same, steady routine was carried out daily; unwrapping the catheter, giving the sedation, laying Mando down, covering his eyes with a small towel and putting a pillow beneath his head, then removing the previous day’s bandages and uncovering all of his wounds.

Those wounds. Like all the sadness in the world split open on graphic display right in front of my eyes.  But, while my heart quivered at their sight, my hands steadied in their presence and led the way each evening.

Mando was torn apart. And it would be the privilege of my very own tried and true hands to mend him back up again.

My fingertips would become the most intimate companions of his pain, and they  would also have the enormous privilege of being  the first witnesses to his healing.

During that one hour each day, I sought, and found, enormous solace in the very physical act of righting the wrongs that Mando had suffered. I could not go back and undo what had been done to him, but I could remain present and allow my hands to do what they love best – to touch, to heal, to find the wounds and lean in.

That hour of hands on care was like a sweet salve on the uneasy corners of my mind; corners that have seen far too much suffering that I will never be able to right or touch; corners that are deeply troubled by all the unbearable pain in the world today – a pain that seems much too large to touch or hold, much less fix.

But Mando? Big as he was, my hands were enough for him.

And day after day, they healed him. One hour at a time.

That’s why I give thanks for these unsightly hands and every single scar upon them. May they continue to rub up against the world and find the jagged surfaces where they can do the greatest good, all the while getting ever more tattered along the way.

And, may each of us find that hour of every day where we tune into the place that we can each make a difference; where our time and particular talents can be channeled into whatever healing we are called toward; where we can both touch the pain and transform it all in the same moment.