Dogs rock my world.

Actually most animals rock my world, but in particular I have a soft spot for the ones that are so ugly they're cute, and even more so, those who've ended up homeless in shelters.

As a long-time animal rescue volunteer (and mama to four different rescue animals over the years), I've most recently taken on the role of foster mom to dogs who are healing from some sort of injury or needed surgery. My first, Tilly, came to me with a cast for her broken toes. My most recent, Martha, arrived with a mouth wire to help reset her broken jaw. And I've loved sharing their stories and our journeys along the way. It's a passion project for me.

I think that's why when I saw the "Live On. Give On." campaign, I was struck by Bakken Invitation honoree Krystal Boyea's message:

Sharing your story can change a life.

In Krystal's situation, sharing her story means telling others in her home country of Barbados about how to live a healthy, happy life with Type 1 diabetes. She was diagnosed at the age of 10 and struggled with feeling different at school and in her community because of the attention she had to pay to the disease (insulin shots, altering her diet, etc.). After years of challenges, she decided to step up. Today she is the face of diabetes in the Caribbean, and tells her story everywhere she can to help change others' lives as well — hence, the recognition from the Bakken Award, which honors those who have overcome health challenges and are now making a difference in their communities.

For my fosters, I know that I'm not just helping them heal. I'm helping them find new forever families. And by sharing my experience with fostering, I might recruit a few of you to the program, thereby changing even more furry lives.

To help you give back in your own way, I've got a prepaid $100 Visa gift card to pass along to one of my readers. Visit the Bakken Invitation website, read the stories of this year's honorees, come back here and let me know in the comments whose message inspires you the most and why. One commenter will be randomly selected on Dec. 30 to receive the gift card. The winner is free to choose how the money is spent, but ideally it will benefit your community in some way. (Participants must be 18 or older and U.S.-based.)

I thank you for getting involved and giving back. And Martha (who is currently looking for her forever family) thanks you too.

Many thanks to Medtronic for sponsoring today’s story and encouraging me to "Live On. Give On."

I had grand plans last night to big-A-accomplish things. I was going to cook dinner. Bake some lime-glazed, gluten-free, vegan banana bread. Write a blog post. Finish this week's laundry, maybe iron a little.

Instead, I spent the evening propped up by pillows in my bed, with a 5-pound, 9-year-old chihuahua curled up on my lap.

I watched her breathe.

I felt her warm body under my fingers.

I listened to her oh-so-soft snore.

I even tried to read, but my eyes kept coming back to her tiny, tiny figure.

The little pup in my lap is my second foster from the Humane Society of the Pikes Peak Region (HSPPR). I'm not new to volunteering for this organization — I spent almost seven years either walking dogs or helping out in the marketing department — but I am new to the foster program.

The first foster I received this fall, a 3-month-old shepherd mix puppy named Tilly, came to me with a cast on one of her back legs to help her heal broken toes, and a cone of shame on her head (to keep her from messing with said cast).

This pup, named Martha, is with me while she heals a broken jaw — the result of a large amount of dental work she had to have in her itty-bitty mouth when she arrived as a stray at HSPPR. She has a wire poking out of the bottom of her chin, to help everything set properly.

Now, if I had a wire poking out the bottom of my chin (or a cone around my head and a cast on my leg for weeks on end), I would be grumpier than all get out.

But Martha takes one look at me and her tail begins to wag, her butt begins to wiggle and she just grins. She doesn't care how she looks or why her tongue now hangs out of her mouth most of the time. Or that I've dressed her in a worn, slightly awkward-fitting, kind of ugly fleece sweatshirt because it's dang cold this week. Or that she's been shipped from who-knows-where to shelter, to vet, back to shelter, and now to my home.

Her resilience is a beautiful thing to experience.

And it reminds me that, with just a little bit of love, we can all survive so much more than we think we can.

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