Pickel was supposed to be a "Frenchie." But when I saw the deplorable conditions he was in, I scooped him up and hurriedly made the six-hour drive home. He was so little, just nine ounces, and his eyes were not even opened yet and feeding every hour with a dropper. It didn't take too long before we realized that Pickel was not a Frenchie, but I had grown so in love with him that it didn't matter. God had truly sent me a precious gift to distract me from my grief. This little creature needed me, and I needed him. Along with the love of Jesus Christ, Pickel gives me a reason to smile and to press forward. God knows exactly what we need.

When asked what breed of dog he is, we just reply, "He's not a dog, he's a Pickel!"