As I was driving home from a women's retreat, a carload of my weekend friends whizzed by, waving as they passed. Moments later, brake lights flashed as we all slowed down for an unexplained obstacle.

I peered through the traffic to see what was causing the delay. Then I saw him, standing in the road—a dirty, muddy, old, bewildered Bassett Hound—ignoring the cars that swerved to miss him.

“I’m pulling over to see if I need to help this dog get out of the road,” I explained to my mom over my cell phone. “Laurie,” she implored in her most aggressive tone, “don’t get out of your car for a dog. You might get killed,” she warned.

A truck driver blared his horns at the dog. The dog appeared oblivious, continuing to walk across the lane. I waited for traffic to clear for a second and then opened my door. Immediately the dog moved out of the road to the front of my car. As I approached the dog, he ran into the adjacent cornfield.

“Whew!” I breathed a sigh of relief. “He’s going home and I can too.” I smiled and slid comfortably behind the steering wheel, eager to get home. Suddenly, the dog changed directions and started back for the highway again. As soon as I got out of the car again, he ran back into the field. Shrugging it off, I got back into the car, sat down in my seat, when again he started for the road.

“Okay, this is it!” I prayed. “I am going to open the passenger door for a few minutes. If he gets in, then I’ll help him. But if he runs off, I’m taking off. He’s on his own. I don’t have time for this, God.”

I went around the car, opened the door, and waited as the dog stood a way off watching me warily. When traffic cleared, I again slid behind the steering wheel—not so comfortably this time.

I turned to look away and that's when he jumped in. Now, I am not a lover of dogs. He panted his foul doggy breath, and I held mine. I got out, took some deep breaths of fresh air and closed his door. By the time I got back to my seat, his muddy paw prints were across my clothes, my pillow, and my books on the back seat. The mud and thistles that had been in his coat were now embedded in my velour seats. “He could have fleas and other vermin on him,” I shuddered at the thought.

My offensive passenger jumped back into the front seat, stared ahead, then gave a sideways glance with his bloodshot eyes, and appeared to ask, “Where are we off to?”

"Why me, Lord? I don’t want some nasty, dirty, muddy old dog in my car,” I fumed. “Why," I wondered, “didn't someone else help this pathetic creature?”

The speaker at the women’s retreat had challenged us to be Good Samaritans in our modern world. And now I was facing a situation where help was definitely needed, but I was in a hurry to get home so I could get my housework done. I wasn't accepting the challenge too gracefully.

I decided to stop at a nearby restaurant to inquire if the owner was there. I announced, "Which one of you knows someone who owns a Bassett Hound?” People looked disinterested.

A busy waitress stopped and dialed the phone. “I am sure the sheriff could help you,” she offered.

“Great,” I said, taking the receiver. I explained the situation to the lady who answered and stated firmly, “Please do whatever needs to be done. I cannot bring that dog home. I have a daughter with allergies.” I didn’t offer the fact that my daughter lives in Tennessee.

“We are too busy to help you today,” she informed. “You need to bring the dog to the shelter tomorrow when it is open.”

“Ma’am,“ I pleaded, “I need a plan today. I cannot bring this dog home.”

Somewhat agitated, she replied, “Then just let him out of your car. We don’t have time to come pick up a dog.”

“Please,” I urged. “He will go back into the road and get killed.”

“Well, that isn’t your responsibility, is it?” she said without a trace of compassion.

I hung up the phone. “No luck,” I told the waitress.

“Look,” she said, pointing to a page in the phone book, “Here is something called an animal lodge where they keep animals until they are adopted. Why not try them?”

“Why … that’s 20 miles east,” I protested, “and not the direction I am going.”

“Suit yourself,” she said as she went back to waiting tables.

I called the animal lodge and a pleasant lady answered. Hopeful of a solution, I explained my problem.

“We’ll house the dog until an owner can be found," she offered, "but you will need to pay for food and lodging until that happens."

Finishing the call I expressed to the waitress, “Oh great! I found a place … and I get to pay the innkeeper out of my own pocket.” I muttered the last part under my breath. This was sounding oddly familiar—like the Good Samaritan story I had recently been reminded of at the retreat.

The dog was excited to see me return to the car. The feelings were not mutual. We headed for the animal lodge taking me 20 long miles in the wrong direction. The dog filled the car with a distinctive odor from his heavy panting. Desperate for some fresh air, I opened the window, but he became agitated and upset. I closed the window and he relaxed.

The dog fumes must have been effecting my brain because I began to discuss a plan with him. “First, we need to brush your teeth, bathe you, put a sweater on you, and a hat. You are really ugly and stinky. And … we need to get you out of this expensive hotel you are about to stay in as soon as possible."

Every so often, he would glance my way with his bloodshot eyes. I decided to call him Colombo. Colombo laid down on the seat, let out a sigh, and went to sleep.

My cell phone rang. “So, when are you coming home?” my husband asked.

“Well,” I explained, “I was on my way when I saw this old, stinky male on the highway and decided to give him a ride. He is right here beside me smelling up my car.”

“You what?” asked my husband incredulously. “You picked up a hitchhiker?”

“Well, it is a long story and I will explain it all later,” I told him.

At the lodge, a lady with a leash walked to the car and I opened the window. Colombo woke up, looked at me, and then at her. She reached in to pat him on the head.

“He sure is dirty," she said. “And is he ever smelly,” she laughed. She snapped on the leash, opened the door, and led him into her backyard. Colombo followed her willingly, and never even looked back at me.

She returned to get my name and number. "We will call you in a few days to let you know what we need to do about his expenses.” I drove home with the window open.

The next day I received a voice mail message. “Hi, this is the lady at the animal lodge. I am just calling to tell you that we found Colombo’s family today. His real name is Garrett. He is 11 years old and deaf. He has been gone for a few days. His family was grateful you took the time to rescue him."

I felt relieved and happy. I smiled.

Each day God places lost people in our lives who need to be loved and cared for. He will even use a reluctant Samaritan like me if I let Him.

Not being a dog lover, I surprised myself at my own compassion for this pathetic animal. Of how much more value are people? They, like Colombo, may be dirty and smelly, look stupid, and not worth helping. Or they may appear cleaned up and all put together on the outside, while masking deep pain and suffering on the inside.

I trust I will have even greater compassion and sensitivity for my fellow brothers and sisters than I do for a dog. As I experience and embrace the grace and mercy God extends to me, I know I will be more willing to extend it to others. I can become a channel of God’s grace and mercy. I pray that when it comes to helping the very ones Christ died for, I won’t be such a reluctant Samaritan.

Laurie Snyman is a social worker from Lansing, Michigan.