To be fair, I didn’t call it that. My brother-in-law, who lives there, did.

I took a trip down the road of responsibility for a change and attended my niece’s graduation. Arguably, it was something many of us worried might not happen.

Things happen. I’m a walking example of that.

She’s a great kid with great parents, and no, I’m not getting paid to say that.

It was good to see their family again. It’s been a while, mostly because of personal commitments, health concerns, and the occasional bad connection. It certainly wasn’t from a lack of wanting to see them. They have one of those genuinely close-knit families that’s becoming increasingly rare, and it’s always comforting to be around. As always, there was the inevitable catching up, sharing stories, and seeing how everyone was doing.

Unfortunately, this was a rocket run—out and back with very little time to simply sit around and talk. Still, I’m grateful for the time we had together. Sometimes even a short visit can recharge the soul.

As we ventured into the wasteland west of Salt Lake City, we made a pit stop at a rest area. Naturally, we had to let our faithful wasteland companion out for a bathroom break. Dogs need to go far more often than most people realize.

Because of the dangers that lurk in the wasteland, it’s usually safest to accompany your companion into the pet relief area. After all, you never know when you might encounter radscorpions, super mutants, or giant snakes.

As my fellow Vault Dweller and I approached the fenced pet area, we noticed a Yorkshire Terrier sitting inside all by himself.

There was a gentleman sitting at a nearby picnic table, so we asked if it was his dog and commented on what a handsome little guy he was.

The man shook his head.

“Nope,” he said. “I’m the rest area attendant. I don’t know whose dog that is, how long he’s been here, or what I’m supposed to do with him.”

Now, it hasn’t been especially hot here in Utah yet—mostly high seventies and low eighties—but this particular rest area sits in the middle of nowhere, just before you begin crossing the salt flats.

Again: radscorpions, super mutants, giant snakes.

Not exactly ideal conditions for a defenseless Yorkie.

My fellow Vault Dweller and I looked at each other.

“I guess he’s coming with us.”

I think we said it almost simultaneously.

Just like that, we loaded him into our means of fast travel and continued our journey deeper into the wasteland to visit family.

One of the reasons I like Cooper Howard—the Ghoul—from the Fallout television series is that he refused to go into the vault because dogs weren’t allowed.

Birds of a feather, I suppose.

That, and let’s be honest, the Ghoul has some pretty damn good lines.

We’re fairly certain this poor little Yorkie was abandoned. There were several telltale signs.

The first was obvious: no collar.

Most responsible owners don’t remove every identifiable item from their dog before losing them.

The second was a water bowl left inside the pet area. I suppose it’s possible a good Samaritan found the dog and left water, but given the circumstances, it seems more likely someone left the bowl intentionally before driving away.

I hope I’m wrong.

I really do.

Because we were traveling and because this rest area was literally in the middle of nowhere, we packed him into the car and brought him along.

Thus saving him from radscorpions, super mutants, giant snakes, and whatever else the Utah wasteland had planned for him.

In the wasteland, we help each other.

This was a kind creature that needed help in that moment.

So what happens now?

The first step is making sure he doesn’t belong to someone who is desperately searching for him. He’ll be checked for a microchip. There is nothing worse than a loving owner being separated from a beloved pet through some accident or misunderstanding.

Who knows?

Maybe his owner set him there for safety before running off to battle radscorpions.

Stranger things have happened.

If no owner can be found, however, and no chip turns up, there’s a very good chance my fellow Vault Dweller will welcome him into the pack permanently.

To be honest, as soon as we got him into the car, he climbed into my friend’s lap, curled up, and promptly went to sleep.

He slept for nearly sixty miles.

For a tiny creature suddenly surrounded by strangers, that’s telling. Whether he was exhausted, relieved, or simply felt safe for the first time in a while, I don’t know. But it broke my heart all the same.

So thanks to a couple of caring wastelanders, a little Yorkie is safe tonight.

Now I’m about to become unhinged.

If you don’t like dogs, don’t fucking adopt them.

If you adopt a dog and it doesn’t fit your household, doesn’t adapt well, or simply isn’t the right match despite training and redirection, then do the right thing. Contact a rescue. Work with a shelter. Find someone who can responsibly rehome the animal.

There are options.

Good options.

What isn’t an option is dumping a helpless animal in a rest area in the middle of the Utah desert and hoping someone else deals with it.

That isn’t inconvenience.

That isn’t rehoming.

That’s abandonment.

Personally, I’d love to find whoever did it and lock them in that fenced pet relief area with nothing but the radscorpions for company.

The person responsible probably won’t read this, but I’ll point out that animal cruelty is a felony in Utah. Frankly, I would be perfectly happy to see charges filed if that’s what happened here.

I would never do that to one of my dogs.

And if I did, my mother would probably come back from the spiritual realm and haunt my ass at full poltergeist strength.

Honestly, I’d deserve it.