- How neighbors, strangers, and faith came together to bring Nala home
- We called her name into the dark, drove the roads.
- We searched the ditches and tree lines for over an hour—but she was not there.
By Dr. Sheri Voss
It started as an ordinary Saturday afternoon, a few days after a windstorm.
Trees had come down across our property, the kind of damage so many in Colden and the surrounding areas know well. My husband was outside stacking wood, cleaning up what the wind had left behind, and our 8-year-old English crème retriever, Nala, stayed close by—loyal as ever, moving quietly between the yard and the woods she knew so well. Until she didn’t.
At some point, without a sound, Nala wandered off. She had done this before—looping through familiar paths, occasionally ending up on a nearby property with the big white house and barn on Bailey. But he panicked. We love our pup. She was a wanderer, and we or a neighbor always found her—but not this time.
An hour passed. Then two. Then four. By early evening, the weight of it hit. Nala could not rely on instinct the way other dogs do—after cancer treatment, she had lost much of her sense of smell. If she was out there, she would not be able to find her way home.
By 5:00 p.m., the search had begun in earnest. My husband trekked into the woods. I drove with windows down, calling her name into the fading light—flashers blinking, voices carrying across fields and into the woods.
Social media posts went up, and messages spread fast across East Aurora, Holland, West Falls, and Colden—and far beyond through Facebook search and rescue groups, lost-and-found pet communities, and their tireless moderators who amplified her story again and again. Posts were shared in WNY Lost & Found Pets, Southtowns Lost and Found Pets, Colden Neighbors, East Auroran, and even Buy Nothing – East Aurora, Elma, Marilla, Wales, Holland.
Moderators worked quickly, pushing updates out and keeping the community connected in real time. Friends near and far began sharing too—Jay, Julie, Michelle, Adele, Meggles, Mike, and Lee, even from as far away as Virginia and Tennessee—proving that distance does not limit compassion when people care.
And then something remarkable happened. People showed up.
Not just a few—but many. We passed cars on quiet roads with hazard lights flashing, people leaning out windows calling for a dog they had never met. Others were deep in the woods, walking trails and property lines in the dark.
At one point, we realized we had crossed paths with more than 20 people out searching—our sweet neighbors, friends, and complete strangers.
The leads started coming in. Jeff saw her at the S-curves around 5:00 p.m., exploring the ditch on the east side of Center Road—one of the first real clues that helped guide the search. Elayne was ready to head into East Aurora to help, asking where exactly she should go. Samantha, nearby, heard us calling and went into her acres to call and search. Megan and so many others were looking, hoping, and encouraging. Victoria, who Nala normally gravitated to, was out searching with her wonderful mom, Linda. Josh and Emily, our neighbors—with their young children—were deep in their property on trails.
People were checking Ring and trail cameras.
A sweet girl named Summer was driving around ready with a simple donut in case she found her. Kim, our mail carrier, reached out to check if it was us, and then started looking, knowing full well what Nala looked like from her many stops at our home. Heather was out searching again the next day, carrying the hope forward. Cody was working behind the scenes, helping us try to find someone with a drone, reaching out and connecting us to anyone who might help. And one woman, without hesitation, sent her husband out on his bike to search—another quiet act of kindness in a night full of them.
People we knew and people we did not—all searching for Nala.
And then, late that Saturday night, came a moment that felt like it might be the one. Around 10:30 p.m., we received a direct message through Facebook: “Call me—I see your dog.” She had been spotted on Darien Road—just one country block from our house. Hope came rushing back all at once. Within seconds, our house was empty.
We are a family of five, ages 17 to 58, and every one of us was in motion—grabbing keys, heading out, jumping into separate cars and driving in from different directions. Even our neighbor Josh headed out at that hour to help search.
We called her name into the dark, drove the roads, and searched the ditches and tree lines for over an hour—but she was not there.
And just as quickly as hope had surged, it faded. We came home exhausted, worried, and heartbroken, starting to lose hope. Nala had never been gone this long.
We returned home exhausted and heartbroken.
Nala had never been gone this long.
We searched fields, roads, and woods, wishing—just for a moment—that there had been a dusting of snow to guide us with paw prints. By midnight, we had to stop.
Sleep did not come easily, but at 5:30 Sunday morning, we were back out there. The air was cold and quiet, and still—people were helping. People were still sharing, still watching, still showing up. People were still praying. Because faith was woven through all of it. In the middle of fear, there was a steady sense that we were not alone—that God was present in the timing, in the people, in every message and every set of headlights in the dark.
Behind the scenes, people were moving just as quickly. My dear friend Jennifer—one of my very best friends—went straight into action early Sunday morning. At 6:00 a.m., before most of the world was even awake, she was already printing over 30 flyers from her own printer and hanging them throughout the community—showing up with belief, determination, and a quiet refusal to give up on Nala.
She gave me something just as important as action—she gave hope. She reminded us that Nala is older, likely tired, and probably very close by. That simple perspective grounded us and helped us believe she was still within reach.
Eighteen hours is a long time when your dog is missing.
Then, around 11:00 a.m. Sunday, everything changed. Our 25-year-old daughter and affectionately called “animal whisperer”, Kelsey and her fiancé Matt had been going house to house along Center Road toward Darien—steady, determined, refusing to give up. About seven country houses away from where she had been last seen, down a long driveway to a quiet log cabin set back, they found her.
Nala lay on the front porch. No one was home. She was simply there—alive, safe, waiting.
Alleluia!
I rushed home to meet their truck and collapsed on the driveway in tears as I wrapped my arms around the giant white fur ball of a bear sized dog. We just snuggled there for a few minutes, and then we had more action to do. She needed to be looked over, checked for ticks, fed, hydrated, and bathed. She was so happy to be home – barreling around the yard running laps like a young puppy.
Family!
Even after she was home, the community did not stop. My husband spent three hours taking down flyers, and along the way, a couple pulled over to ask if we had found her. When we told them she was home, they shared how worried they had been and how they had been praying. The woman became so overwhelmed with relief that she began to cry. That is the kind of place this is.
This is what community looks like. It looks like headlights in the dark and voices calling through the trees. It looks like neighbors dropping everything and families bringing their children along to help. It looks like big, beautiful eye-catching flyers, social media posts, and strangers turning into search teams. It looks like people who care—deeply, instinctively—about someone else’s loss.
We will never fully have the words for the gratitude we feel. The fear of not knowing where she was is something we will not forget—but neither is the overwhelming kindness that met us in that fear. Nala is home.
And when the “FOUND” post finally went up, it spread just as fast—closing the loop on a story so many people had been following and praying over. And like so many moments in this journey, even that ending carried a quiet reminder of where she had been—the woods, the waiting, the unknown.
We checked her carefully for ticks—grateful to have Kelsey, a vet tech, guiding us—and thankfully, all of our prevention treatments had worked.
Not so much for my husband, who forgot to permethrin spray his coat in the rush.
But that’s another story.