10/19/2026
❤️🐾 Sometimes a letter comes along that reminds us why we do what we do.
We recently received this beautiful message from an adopter, and it touched our hearts in ways that are difficult to put into words.
It’s a reminder that the impact of rescue reaches far beyond the dogs we save. The love, healing and connection can change human lives just as profoundly.
We wanted to share it with you, exactly as it was written, because some stories are simply too meaningful not to share.
Please take a moment to read this one. It’s worth every word. ❤️🐾
Dear National Mill Dog Rescue,
Before National Mill Dog Rescue knew her as Unique, AP17-93, a piece of her earliest paperwork called her “Unik.”
I knew her as Kodi.
Kodi passed away on August 8, and as I’ve been going through her things and remembering her life, I realized that the people who gave her another chance deserved to know what happened next.
And, wow, did that dog live.
I came to NMDR in Peyton looking for a dog after a bad fall on black ice left me with a significant fear of ice and snow. I wanted a companion who could help me get outside, keep moving, and regain my confidence.
That’s when you introduced me to Unique.
Her early paperwork described a little dog who took time to warm up to people and seemed to trust men more easily. That was Kodi. She didn’t give her trust away immediately — but once you had it, you had something incredibly special. And you definitely had access to unlimited belly rubs.
I renamed her Kodi after coming across the idea that the name meant something like friendly or helpful. Whether I had the translation exactly right or not, I loved what it represented.
It turned out to fit her perfectly.
We never went through formal service-dog training, but Kodi became my emotional support in practically every way possible. She helped me overcome my fear of ice and snow and carried me through breakups, deaths, major life changes, finding my religion, and three major surgeries in one year.
She always seemed to know when I’d been inside too long and needed to get up, get outside, pick up my step, run a little, play, or explore.
And explore we did.
Kodi traveled to at least 37 states and 10 national parks. She hiked in Colorado, Arizona, California, Pennsylvania, Utah, and beyond. She knew snow, desert, mountains, and sand.
She flew around the country, camped countless times, slept on the beach in Carlsbad, cruised through the Arizona desert in a side-by-side, and joined me on paddleboards, kayaks, and a pedal boat.
She even went to a Colorado Rockies game, walked on the field, and sat in the stands.
For years she was able to go to work with me, and we spent hours a day outside walking, hiking, and exploring. She moved with me many times and took every new home and new adventure in stride.
She also got dog-napped in Flagstaff and thankfully made it home, killed nine chickens in one particularly questionable year, and once got into psychedelic mushrooms.
Even the perfect dog needs a criminal record, apparently.
Kodi almost never barked, loved belly rubs, and loved, loved, loved puppies.
During the last year and a half of her life, she got a little partner named Buddi (pronounced Buddy). As Kodi’s hearing and mobility changed with age, I hoped having a younger companion would be good for her.
They became a wonderful team.
I’m so thankful Kodi got to leave her mark on Buddi. I get to see little pieces of what she taught him continue in our home even though she isn’t physically here anymore.
That’s probably the hardest part now: realizing just how much I relied on Kodi simply being there.
I originally went looking for a dog because I needed some help.
What I found was Kodi.
She helped me reclaim parts of my life that fear had taken away and then stayed beside me through years of living it.
I wish I could show that cautious little dog from her original paperwork what was ahead of her: 37 states, national parks, mountains, deserts, oceans, airplanes, camping trips, belly rubs, puppies, ridiculous adventures, and a person whose life she would completely change.
I’d tell her:
Just wait, Unik. You have one hell of a life ahead of you.
Her earliest paperwork called her Unik.
NMDR knew her as Unique.
I knew her as Kodi.
And after everything she did, everywhere she went, and everything she meant to me, those first names turned out to be remarkably fitting.
She truly was unique.
There will never be another Kodi.
Thank you for saving her, for giving her another chance, and for bringing us together.
You didn’t just change her life. You changed mine.
With more gratitude than I know how to express,
