Dancing Bear Animal Haven

09/07/2025

The Power of Prayer

(Faith & Family Legacy)

Before my brother passed away in 1970, I admired him so much. I guess he had his share of problems, but he was my brother, and to me he could do no wrong. One of the things I always admired was how he could be friendly to anyone and everyone, no matter their circumstances.

But that was then, and this is now. Today, I want to talk about the power of prayer.

A couple of years ago—maybe just a year ago, I can’t quite recall—I was struggling worse than usual. I had done everything I possibly could, paid all the bills I could, and I was still short. Not just a little short, but by a lot. I couldn’t see any way to meet my obligations.

I remember it was a Friday afternoon. I had gone into town to take care of a tire, and as I was driving home, I was thinking about my situation. I had once been blessed by a dear friend who had set up a $50 monthly donation directly into the Dancing Bear account. But then he got cancer, and he passed away.

For some reason, though, the next month the $50 still came. And the month after that, it came again. It was showing up from a company name I didn’t recognize. I kept meaning to write a thank-you note, but life was busy, and I didn’t get to it. Then the donation went up—$100, then $200. It didn’t seem right. I even took a picture of the check and planned to contact them, but somehow, I never did.

Now it was this Friday, and I was driving home, worrying over my obligations. Sabbath was coming, and of course the temptation was there: “Well, you’ve got your tithe.” The devil always tries to whisper. But even that wasn’t enough. Finally, I just prayed. I don’t even think I pulled off the road—I prayed as I drove.

“Lord, You know where I’m at. You know my needs. Right now, I am short $500. I don’t know how that can be, and I don’t know how I can make it. But I know You own the world and everything in it. And You can do this.”

About the time I finished praying, I pulled up to the mailbox. People often tell stories like this, but this was mine. I opened the box, pulled out the mail, and there was a check. I thought, “Well, maybe this is $50 of it.” But when I opened it, the check was for $500—exactly what I had prayed for. I was shocked. I didn’t even know how to thank God enough for what He had just done.

I drove to the gate, and as I stopped, my phone rang. Normally, if I don’t recognize the number, I don’t answer. But this time, still reeling from the $500 check, I picked up.

“Is this Joni?” a man’s voice asked.

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, this is…” (I’ll leave his name out). “I was calling to see if you’ve been receiving my checks.”

“What checks?” I asked, honestly surprised.

He went on to explain, “I’ve been sending $50 a month, and whenever I could, I sent more. This month I sent a larger one, and I just wanted to make sure you got it.”

I said, “Would that be the one for $500?”

He laughed. “Yeah, that would be the one.”

I was nearly in tears. I told him how much I appreciated it, how I had been meaning to thank him, and how much of a blessing it was. Then he began to share his own story.

He told me about rescuing cats, and we talked for almost 45 minutes about animals, why we do what we do, and how much we love each one. Finally, as the conversation was winding down, he said, “Do you have any questions for me?”

“I do,” I replied. “Why Dancing Bear?”

There was a pause. Then he said, “Why Dancing Bear? Let me tell you a story. Back in 1970, I was just starting school. I wasn’t comfortable with going to a strange boarding school. But I met a kid there—his name was Jim. He was kind to me and helped me find my way.

“Just a couple of weekends ago, I went back for alumni, and I heard people saying, ‘Oh, Jim’s little sister Joni is in Wyoming. She runs an animal rescue.’ I gathered all the information I could, looked you up online, and found you.

“Your brother was so good to me. Helping you was my chance to pay it forward. That’s why Dancing Bear, and that’s why you.”

Then the whole story came together. Back in 1970, God answered a prayer I didn’t even know I would have in 2024. That’s the power of prayer.

God answers daily, but this one showed me that even when I don’t know my own needs, He has already made provision.

God is good. God is good.

09/06/2025

A Hard Day, A Faithful God

“In all things, give thanks and praise the Lord.” I try to remember that. But today… today stretched my gratefulness thin.

I got up late and wrestled with online problems until I finally gave up and went outside to mow. My almost-new lawnmower—used only a handful of times—still refuses to behave. It needs starter fluid, and its battery dies after one use, no matter how new it is. I don’t have the money to fix it, so I make do.

When I went to start it, I found a wasp nest in the little barn where it was stored. Four stings later, I dragged the mower out with the pickup and a chain. I finally got it to fire up, but three tires were flat. I coaxed it over to the compressor, filled the tires, and was just about to add fuel when it died. The bolts that hold the battery in place have vanished, and the makeshift ones I tried didn’t fit. I gave up.

Next, I turned to the dog pens. One of the little dogs had dug out earlier and gone after the chickens. Thankfully, the chickens were safe, but I wanted to clean the pen and rearrange the dogs to keep peace. Without the mower, I used tree trimmers to hack at the weeds. My left hand isn’t working too well these days, so that lasted only half an hour.

As I was finishing up, I caught Mimi—my little Persian with the stiff leg. She’s been with me for years, but she still explodes when handled. I got her into the house, but not before my already sore left hand was scratched and cut.

Sundown was coming, and it was time to feed. That’s when I realized how low the feed bins are getting. Several donors had dropped off at once recently, and now supplies are running thin. I don’t know where the next batch will come from. But I do know God will supply all my needs according to His riches.

It has been a hard day. But tomorrow is Sabbath. Tomorrow I can rest, and then start again on Sunday. It’s not easy to always lift your chin, always give thanks, and always praise the Lord. But that is what He asks us to do—and He is faithful.

God is good.

08/30/2025

The dog died in the back of the truck, halfway between the pasture and the barn. He didn’t whimper. Didn’t fight. Just laid his head down on that splintered wooden bed the way he’d done a thousand times before, dust curling up from his fur as the tires rumbled over gravel.

I glanced in the mirror and knew. That kind of stillness doesn’t belong to the living.

I pulled over by the south fence line. The cows lifted their heads, slow and curious, steam rising from their nostrils in the cool morning air. The sun was just climbing over the ridge, painting the fields the same burnt gold I’d been watching since I was a boy. But this time, it felt different—like the light was saying goodbye, too.

Rufus wasn’t just a dog. He was part of the land, same as the rust-stained water tank, the broken windmill, the barbed wire patched with baling twine. He’d been there through drought and flood, through the lean winters when we sold half the herd just to keep the lights on, through the summers when sweat and hope were the only currency we had.

When I bought him in ’78, he was all legs and teeth, nipping at my boots before I even got him home. My dad laughed, said no good cow dog wastes energy on the man feeding him. But Rufus learned. He learned fast.

By the fall of that year, he could cut a stray heifer out of a herd with nothing but a look. He’d chase coyotes off the back pasture, guard the kids by the clothesline, and sleep with one ear cocked toward the barn like a soldier on watch.

My wife used to joke that Rufus listened better than I did. She wasn’t wrong.

The years don’t move gentle out here. They come at you like weather—sudden, rough, and unforgiving.

Dad’s heart gave out in the middle of branding season, and I buried him on the north hill. The price of beef crashed in the ’80s, and I signed papers at the bank with a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking. My wife packed up and left in ’92, said she’d had her fill of mud, manure, and men who spoke more to their cattle than to their wives.

Through all of it, Rufus stayed. He never asked why I worked from dark to dark. Never judged when I sat on the porch with a bottle instead of supper. He just waited, eyes steady, tail tapping the boards like a metronome.

Some nights, when the loneliness chewed too deep, I’d find myself talking to him. Not soft, silly talk—but the hard words I never told anyone else. He never answered, but somehow I always walked away lighter.

This morning, the herd had broken through the far fence again, drifting toward the county road. It wasn’t the first time. My knees aren’t what they used to be, and the cows seem to know it.

But Rufus… even at thirteen, stiff in the joints, muzzle white with age… he rose when I grabbed the keys. Climbed into the truck bed without a sound.

One last drive.

We pushed those cows back easy. He moved slower now, but the old fire was there. A bark, a dart, a low crouch—muscle memory older than my youngest daughter. He got them turned, got them moving, same as always.

And then, on the ride back, he laid down.

By the time I stopped, it was done.

I carried him into the barn. The hay smelled sweet and damp, dust dancing in the shafts of light. I set him down by the tack wall, next to the saddle that hasn’t seen a horse in twenty years.

For a long time, I just sat there, my hand on his ribs, waiting for the rise and fall that would never come again. The cows bawled outside, restless for feed, but I didn’t move.

I thought about all the mornings he’d beaten me out the door. All the nights he’d lain by the bunkhouse, keeping watch over a tired man and a tired dream. I thought about the good days, when my kids were little and my wife still laughed in the kitchen. And I thought about how damn much of my life had slipped away while I wasn’t looking.

The truth is, we measure time out here not in years but in seasons, in calves born and calves lost, in fences mended and fences broken. And now, for me, there will always be the years of Rufus.

I buried him by the north hill, near Dad. The ground was hard, the shovel heavy, but I kept going until it was done. When I stood back, sweat stinging my eyes, I swear I saw Dad’s old hat in the wind, and heard Rufus’s bark echo off the ridge.

Maybe it was just memory. Maybe it was more.

Either way, I know this: dogs and men aren’t all that different. We give what we can. We hold the line. We carry on until we can’t anymore.

And if we’re lucky, when the last drive comes, someone remembers.

08/23/2025

The God Who Seeks the One

The Bible is full of lessons, but sometimes those lessons become real only when we live them out in our own lives. Jesus told a story about a shepherd who had one hundred sheep. At night, he brought them in and counted. Ninety-nine were safe, but one was missing. The shepherd left the flock and went searching until he found the one and brought it home.

I know exactly how that feels. For many years I’ve rescued animals, and when the coyotes are howling, the eagles are circling, or cars are speeding by on the road, I cannot rest if one animal is missing. If most of the cats are in but two are still outside, if most of the dogs are safe but one is running loose, or if the front gate is left open—I feel an ache inside until every one of them is accounted for. I have driven up and down the road, searched barns and sheds, called over and over, and prayed until the missing one was safely back. Only then can I rest.

If I, being human and flawed, feel such deep concern for an animal, how much more must God feel when one of His children wanders away? He does not scorn us or cast us aside. Instead, His heart longs for us. He goes to all lengths to bring us back. He even gave His own Son to die so that we could be restored to His fold.

I cannot fully understand that kind of love with my head—but my heart knows it, and it sings because of it. God is good.

08/22/2025

The Comforting Paw

I have struggled with health issues most of my life. Some of it may have been from growing so fast as a child, and some likely from diet and other concerns. Whatever the cause, I have known sickness and weakness more than once.

There was a time when I became so severely dehydrated that the hospital staff couldn’t get a needle into me. Doctors and nurses tried again and again, jabbing my hands and arms until they discussed calling Flight for Life, because paramedics were often more skilled at finding a vein. At last, they succeeded, and I was kept for two days of hydration before being sent home.

I was terribly sick. My mother came to stay with me, though she herself was quietly battling pancreatic cancer—something none of us knew at the time. She did the best she could, mostly resting on the couch. Out in the living room, she heard my cat, little Charlie, scratching at my bedroom door and crying. But she didn’t have the strength to check on me.

Inside my room, things were dark and frightening. I had been sent home on morphine for the severe gut pain, but morphine does not sit well with me. It caused hallucinations and a suffocating sense of evil that I can hardly explain. I lay on my stomach, unable to move, a fan blowing on me. And from that fan, I felt an awful, evil presence creeping toward me.

I could not escape. I could not even cry out. It felt like sleep paralysis—the terrifying state where you are awake and aware, yet completely frozen. Fear overtook me. But even in that helplessness, I could still pray. And so, in my mind, I cried out to God for help.

In that very moment, I felt a large, strong hand take hold of mine. Peace washed over me. The evil presence was gone. My heart quieted, and I could breathe again.

When I was finally able to move, I turned my head to see who was holding my hand. There beside me was a little black cat, her paw resting firmly in my palm.

It may have been her tiny paw that I felt in the flesh, but I know in my spirit that the Lord had sent an angel to sit beside me. Through that small, faithful creature, He gave me comfort in the darkest hour.

God often intervenes in ways we do not recognize. Sometimes He uses the ordinary—like a cat’s paw—to deliver extraordinary peace. If we only slow down and pay attention, we might just feel His hand, or the hands of His angels, holding us close.

God is good.

07/26/2025

Kujo

I began working for two wonderful women in 2003 as a picture framer. From the very beginning, we clicked. They were my bosses, yes, but it felt more like joining a family. I even brought my little Chihuahua, Nanush, to work with me every day, and he was always welcome.

At one point, Nanush went to stay in a small nearby town with a girlfriend of mine for about three weeks. The result was a litter of puppies. I told one of my bosses about them, and she just had to see them. She came by with her husband, and while she fell in love with a tiny brown short-haired puppy, her husband was drawn to the fuzziest one of the bunch—a black and tan sable with a bit of a grumpy face. That was Kujo.

Nanush was Kujo’s father, though they didn’t grow up together. Still, they did spend many years working side by side with me in the frame shop. Kujo would come in with his mom, and Nanush came with me. They shared a long chapter of their lives under the same roof until Nanush passed, taken by a sudden and irreversible jaw condition. That was a heartbreaking day for all of us.

Years passed, and life brought changes. Eventually, due to unforeseen circumstances, Kujo came to live with me. I was never his original mom, just a caretaker, but it was an honor to be there for him. For nearly two years, Kujo made himself at home. He had a little bed in the corner, watched over puppies, adored his kitties, and slept curled up with them every night. He was gentle and wise, with a steady, calming presence.

Kujo was born in 2003. Today, July 11, 2025, he passed over the Rainbow Bridge to reunite with his dad, Nanush. A long life—over 22 years—filled with good food, love, purpose, and peaceful days. He got treats, home-cooked meals, snuggles, and quiet moments. Just a month ago, he even got to visit his one and only mom again, something that was especially touching and meaningful.

He will be missed more than words can express. I’m so thankful I got to be part of his final chapter. He was a good little dog. A very good little dog.

07/22/2025

One Eyed Jack

I was born in Colorado into a large family. Because my mother was burdened with so many children, shortly after birth I went into foster care.
I Don't remember much of that time but I was told that I was passed around from family to family. At meal time I would be picked up and fed along with my cousins by one of my aunts and then left until the next meal.
Bathing was seldom and I developed a chronic eye infection because of that. There were times that I could not even open my eyes, and I would get overlooked unless I yelled my head off!
It was one of these times when I had been placed on a board in the sun and forgotten about that my present foster Mom discovered me.
I was sitting in a ray of sunlight waiting quietly.
My infection had gotten so bad that my left eye had exploded and was dangling out of the socket... Shriveled.
Mom came in, scooped me up, and rushed me to the hospital. There Dr. R took one look and said that he would have to remove the eye immediately. He told my Mom that it did not look good because of my malnutrition and infection but that he would do all he could.
Three hours later Dr.R called and said, with great pride and joy, "He's a little trooper!
He came through well! I filed the socket with silicone and stitched it closed... He may have a prosthesis if you would like, but it will need to be changed as he grows." (Mom said no.) Then he announced "I named the little guy - hope you don't mind. We here at the hospital call him One Eyed Jack." I came home 3 days later.
My legs were bowed and my hair was gone due to the trauma, but I was over the worst As I grew older and got stronger, I acquired the nick name of Mighty Mouse due to my determination and strenght.
Now I'm just referred to as Mouse.
My foster Mom has many stories like mine. She spends her life caring for the unwanted.
All have a story something like mine.
Mom is an artist, photographer, and picture framer. That is how she cares for us.
Many of us need new homes to love and care for us.
I, the Mighty One eyed Jack have mine

07/21/2025

⸻

Morning Chores & Hope for Tomorrow
Farm Life & Faith

The dogs are barking. The cats are coming in from the night. The horse is calling out to the neighbor horses. And the roosters are crowing. It’s time to get up and start another day.

It’s an honor to do what I do—caring for God’s creation. The sick, the injured, the ones no one else wants. I’ve been doing this for 52 years now. And I pray God will give me at least 10 more.

With His help—and with yours—it can be done.

I look forward to a day when there will be no more sickness or pain, when all of these little creatures are cared for as they were meant to be from the beginning. A time when fences and cages won’t be needed. When no one goes hungry. When what we build, we can keep.

But for now, there’s a little horse waiting for hay. There are wagons to fill with kitty food and dog food. There are chickens to feed and turkeys to chase with a broom.

And because of you—I can keep going.

Thank you for helping. Your support matters more than you know.

07/09/2025

Wooly Bully and the Power of a Simple Prayer

It was quite a challenge that Sabbath. The wind howled, the day was miserable, and I was trying to get ready for church. Of course, having a rescue meant that all the chores and critters came first before I could even think about getting out the door.

At the time, I had a couple of horses, some birds outside, and a big longhorn steer named Wooly Bully. He was striking—black with white speckling down his sides, and massive horns that curled forward instead of out like most longhorns. A truly beautiful animal.

As I went to get in my car to leave, I glanced over to check the livestock. That’s when I saw it—the gate was open, and Wooly Bully was gone.

No steer. Nowhere.

I threw the car in park, jumped out, and ran over to the corral to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. But no, it was empty. I circled the house, calling out, scanning everywhere. Still nothing.

From where I lived, there was my small house, a barn across the yard, more corrals, and two additional barns straight ahead. Trees wrapped around the property, and behind all that stretched miles of open land backed up to rugged bluffs. You couldn’t see into the ravines or down into the brush—finding a steer out there without help would be near impossible. I would’ve had to saddle up and ride for hours just hoping for a glimpse.

But I wanted to get to church. I needed to get to church. I was desperate to be in the Lord’s presence with others, to worship and be filled.

So I stopped.

I breathed.

And I remembered—I’m not alone. I never do any of this alone.

So I prayed. Nothing fancy. Just simple, raw, real.

“Lord, I can’t do this. I have to meet with You. I can’t go another week without time in Your house. But I can’t leave Wooly Bully to wander. He’ll get mixed into another herd, and I’ll lose him for good. He’s branded, but not with my brand.”

I went back inside, grabbed my Bible, came out again, scanned the property once more.

Nothing.

I got in the car, turned it around to head out, still heavy-hearted but trying to trust.

And there—standing calmly by the gate, waiting quietly in the wind—was Wooly Bully.

That same gate that had been blown open had now swung shut with the wind, and he was just… standing there. Waiting to come in.

I know he hadn’t been on the property before. I had walked that land, called his name, looked in every corner. He wasn’t there.

But after I prayed, it took less than three minutes, and he was back.

That moment will forever remind me: prayer isn’t just for the big emergencies. It’s for everything. The daily things. The little things that might not matter to anyone else—but they matter to me. And they matter to God.

He helps me every day—in the muck, the wind, the broken gates, and lost steers.

God is good.

07/07/2025

07/06/2025

07/06/2025

It’s Never Easy to Ask…

There are so many rescues out there doing incredible work. But the truth is, the smaller the rescue, the more help is needed.

One of the hardest parts of running a rescue isn’t the cleaning, feeding, or vet runs—it’s asking for help. But it’s also one of the most important parts. Without your support, the animals can’t keep going.

Larger organizations often receive more attention and donations—and that’s understandable. But the tiny rescues, the ones working quietly with very few resources, often need even more help just to keep the doors open.

Please consider a small monthly donation to Dancing Bear Animal Haven.
Even a few dollars a month adds up—and having something steady to count on means everything.

Every gift is appreciated. Every act of kindness makes a difference. Whether it’s money, supplies, or simply spreading the word, your support means the world to the animals here.

And yes, all donations are tax-deductible.

Thank you for keeping Dancing Bear Animal Haven in your heart. 🐾