As I was sitting in my living room, engrossed in a self-help book about finding the perfect partner to complete me, I got a call from my teenage daughter Jordan that changed everything.I was in my mid-40s and felt extremely low about myself and my life. I was divorced, had a few unsuccessful relationships in recent years, and I felt I’d failed at finding true love.“Please, Mom, it’s so cute and tiny!” Jordan was at a photo shoot in Hollywood. The makeup artist had a puppy with her, and its sibling still needed a home.“Just our three cats — that’s what we’re allowed,” I reminded her. The apartment rules I had signed 11 years ago after my split with her dad were ironclad.“No one will know! I’ll never ask for anything else ever again!” she promised, and because she was my only child, she always got her way.Within a week, a tired-looking lady from a dog rescue organization brought a fit-in-your-palm-sized black chihuahua to our home. We named him Preston, and we soon discovered he had a big bark! When we were told to move out or get rid of the dog, the decision was easy. We moved. Ironically, Preston never became my daughter’s dog. He was mean and bit everyone except me. My love for him was plain and true. He slept under my left arm every night for almost 19 years.Months after moving to a dog-friendly place, I saved a big black terrier boy. I found him caked with dirt in the middle of a street with a broken rope around his neck. I lifted him into my car and rushed to the vet. When he was cleared to leave, we brought him home and named him Alfie. Next came Maddie, a sweet little spaniel mix from a high-kill shelter. And so, I began to save them — one dog at a time.When my daughter went off to college, mutts took the place of men. It seemed the more I missed my only child, the more dogs I saved. The chaos and their constant need for my attention filled the void.The fact that I lived in a house full of animals was not completely surprising.“I’m never, ever getting married, and when I grow up, I’m going to live in a castle with a hundred cats and dogs and monkeys and goats!” I used to tell everyone as a child. Playing with dolls and wearing frilly tutus were never my thing. Animals were.Today, I’ve been in the trenches of dog rescue in Los Angeles for over 20 years. I’ve also had three major back surgeries. My lower back is all titanium now.“When are you going to stop lifting crates and heavy bags of dog food?” my spine surgeon asked after my second back surgery.“Soon. I’m slowing down, I swear — less rescue, health comes first.”As I told him that, I wanted to believe what I was saying, but I knew deep down it was never going to happen. The number of animals needing help is seemingly infinite. There’s always another urgent email plea about a pit-mix puppy thrown from a car window, or a Facebook post about a matted poodle, limping, on the side of the road, or, in recent months, a frantic phone call about two senior terriers left in a home after the owners were deported after an ICE raid. How can I stop? How do I say no? How do I look the other way?“Rescue is like quicksand,” a seasoned rescuer told me years ago. “Once you get in, you’ll never get out.” I didn’t fully understand what she meant at the time, but she was right.After I sold the little jewelry and paintings I had to pay for my rescued dogs’ medical expenses, I decided to become a legit operation. It’s been 16 years since I formed my own nonprofit dog rescue foundation. I now have an indispensable right hand, Gina, who matches me in commitment and enthusiasm (and exhaustion), as well as a community of wonderful volunteers, foster parents, groomers, rescue partners and donors. It takes a pack of passionate people to save lives.My morning often starts something like this. A text at 7:30 a.m. pings on my phone with an image of nine large-breed puppies abandoned in an orchard — their terrified faces peering out of the wagon they were dumped in. My adrenaline kicks in, and the only thing that matters is getting those poor babies to safety. I’m holding my phone and texting with one hand, and with the other, I’m filling dog bowls with my home-cooked mix and haphazardly throwing them down for my waiting pack.We have nowhere to put these nine pups, so I scroll down to Lori, one of my trusted go-to rescuers, who has a big property and takes larger pups. She’s my first rapid-fire text and, luckily, in this case, my last. It’s a bartering game sometimes.I’ll take them if you can take the Chiweenie family we picked up yesterday.I have a foster who likes small-breed moms and babies, so I text back, No prob, done deal.Miriam, who often transports dogs for me, is my next call. Within two hours, the orchard puppies are saved. Later that week, I’ll get pics of the litter happily frolicking. We’ll never know who the uncaring people who abandoned these helpless pups were, and sadly, this kind of cruelty happens often. I have spent days working in last night’s pajamas until whatever crisis we’re facing has been resolved. As for the mama Chihuahua/Doxie and babies, they’ll be groomed, vet-treated, spayed/neutered, given toys, collars and tags, and trained, if needed, before we place them into forever homes.I think of myself as the passer of the baton. My job is to love them all like they are my own and give them the best of everything to make up for the trauma they’ve been through, and then place them into the arms of great adopters who’ll give them the lives they deserve.I have a ritual — a way of saying goodbye to every dog that comes into our organization that I’ve fostered. When I drop a dog off at their new home after the house and yard are secure and checked, I take a walk with the new owners and pup, who’s sniffing and enjoying the unfamiliar surroundings. I’ve prepared the adopters, so they know what’s coming next. After a block or so, I quietly peel off and head in the opposite direction back to my car. There are no confusing goodbyes for the dogs because I’ve learned that works better.This is the “movie moment” that I’ve repeated hundreds of times: taking a last look at that prancing dog with her gleaming coat and tail up, who is now a loved pet. It’s that image, as they head into the proverbial sunset, that I keep imprinted in my mind. The dog that I spent four hours taking 50 ticks off its tiny body. The dog that came trembling out of a high-kill shelter three hours before it was set to be euthanized. The dog that was chained to an RV bumper 24/7. All of those dogs are now somebody’s best friend, best snuggler and best hiking buddy.I often drive away from dropping these dogs off with tears in my eyes, but I also feel a deep sense of calm because I know I’ve fulfilled my commitment to each one of them. I’ve fulfilled my promise of great new lives — even if it takes weeks, months or sometimes even years to deliver it to them.There is a well-known expression in the rescue community: “Saving one dog won’t change the world, but it will surely change the world for that one dog.” This is the mantra I live by, but for me, it goes one step even further. It’s also about how those new adopters’ lives have been changed for the better.I couldn’t have gotten through my husband’s death without Bruno. He’s my rock.Our 9-year-old son was so shy until we adopted Skye. She’s brought him out of his shell.Messages like these are what keep me going. Taking a skinny, filthy pup and transforming him into a happy, healthy dog who is then adopted and loved forever. That’s powerful magic. In our current world, where it’s easy to feel that we have no agency, being able to have a positive impact on a life, two-legged or four, matters. We can make beautiful things happen one creature or person at a time.While I don’t have much time to think about my love life, others seem to.I think I found your next husband! reads a recent late-night text from a friend, who has also sent along the Instagram post of a smiling guy sitting in the middle of a canine-covered couch.Right, so we can have 100 dogs together! I text back.Never mind, looks like he’s married. Sad face emoji.I’m not disappointed. I’m in bed surrounded by my current assortment of rescue dogs. It’s a melting pot of smooth and scruffy, white, tan, black, brown and gray older ones, and two pink-nosed puppies. They are all pushed up close, nuzzling against me, paws across my legs and arms, offering little licks to my fingertips. Their round eyes are looking at me with such open, pure love. It is in that moment that it comes to me — that profound aha! realization.What I have in my life is not a soulmate, but a soul–purpose, and that’s what completes me.Linzi Glass is a published author with Henry Holt and Company, HarperCollins, Penguin UK, and Scholastic, and the founder and executive director of The Forgotten Dog Foundation, a Los Angeles–based rescue that has saved thousands of dogs over the past 16 years. She is currently working on a memoir about her years in dog rescue. For more info, visitwww.theforgottendog.org/ and www.linziglass.com.