Dancing Bear Animal Haven

05/01/2026

05/01/2026

Happy girl!

04/03/2026

Nite nite

02/19/2026

Puppies are the best!

01/30/2026

01/30/2026

I am a senior citizen and a widow, doing my best to keep going—working, managing life, and holding together a large family. Not a family of people, but a family all the same.

For 52 years, I have been rescuing unwanted animals. A little over a year ago, I lost my husband, and now the responsibility rests on my shoulders alone. I understand that this is not anyone else’s obligation. But these little animals are all our concern, because there are so many who have no one to care for them—injured, sick, frightened, alone, and unfixed.

The vet bills add up. The food costs are constant. Vehicles break down. Buildings need repairs. And there is one elderly woman trying to do it all.

Today, I am asking—if you find it in your heart—to help these little critters. You can do so by clicking the button for Dancing Bear Animal Haven, where donations go directly to their care. If giving money doesn’t feel right for you, there is also an Amazon wish list where you can send food, puppy pads, or other much-needed supplies.

Right now, everything is needed.

There are always more animals who need help. Because of age and limited resources, not all of them can receive it here—and many receive no help at all. This is your chance to make a difference for those still waiting.

Won’t you help these little creatures?
https:paypal.me/joniunderwood

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.