The dog who crashed a graduation — and earned every second of it
Doges Editorial · 2026-05-19 · 5 min read
Honey arrived at Iowa State's vet hospital on Christmas Eve with skull fractures and brain trauma, owned by a man who had nothing but love for her. Five months later she walked across the commencement stage.
The auditorium in Ames was already loud — hundreds of new veterinarians in the seats, families in the upper galleries, diplomas moments away. Then Dean Dan Grooms stepped to the microphone and announced that one more graduate would be recognized. Nobody in the room knew what was about to walk through the door. When Honey appeared on the stage of Iowa State University's College of Veterinary Medicine commencement ceremony on May 16, the shock was immediate and audible.
She had arrived at ISU's Lloyd Veterinary Medical Center five months earlier — on Christmas Eve — hit by a car in Des Moines, barely alive. Fractures across her skull. Fractures in her sinus. Brain trauma that would have killed most dogs, and might reasonably have been expected to kill her. She survived. And then she did more than survive.
A decision made out of love
At the time of the accident, Honey belonged to a man who was homeless. He wanted to save her — wanted it badly enough that he brought her to the Lloyd Veterinary Medical Center in the middle of the night on December 24. But he couldn't pay for the care she needed. He faced a choice that no one should have to face: let her be euthanized, or sign her over and walk away, hoping the people in that building could give her a life he couldn't.
He surrendered her. That decision — quiet, private, heartbreaking — is the reason any of what happened next was possible.
What Christmas Eve looked like at the Lloyd
The Lloyd Veterinary Medical Center team moved immediately. Stabilization first: managing the acute brain trauma, controlling swelling, keeping her systems from failing. Then, the fractures.
Fixing fractures, fixing things that they could fix. The most important thing was also trying to understand and manage the brain trauma as well.
— Dr. Dan Grooms, Dean of Veterinary Medicine, Iowa State University
That same evening, one of the emergency doctors picked up the phone and called Jan Erceg — the founder and medical director of Critter Crusaders of Cedar Rapids, an Iowa-based organization that funds and guides advanced medical care for shelter and rescue animals. Erceg's organization was built exactly for moments like this: a critically injured dog, no owner in a financial position to help, and a team of veterinary professionals who had just committed to doing everything possible.
We provide the funds, and we help guide the care, and we work directly with the doctors on treatment plans. We're very adept at taking emergency cases. The vast majority of our cases are emergencies, just like Honey when she came in.
— Jan Erceg, founder and medical director, Critter Crusaders of Cedar Rapids
Five days a week, month after month
Recovery from injuries like Honey's does not happen in a single dramatic moment. It happens in increments — in the Tuesday afternoon rehabilitation session and the Thursday morning one, repeated across months, tracked in small gains that only become visible when you compare where you started to where you are now. Honey's rehabilitation ran five days a week at the Lloyd Veterinary Medical Center, led by residents, vet technicians, and students who rotated through her care.
Critter Crusaders raised more than $27,000 toward Honey's treatment costs over those months. The community response — from donors who had never met Honey and never would — made it possible for the care to continue at the pace and intensity it required.
What surprised people who worked with Honey throughout all of this was her temperament. A dog with a history that severe, who had suffered that much physical trauma, might reasonably be expected to carry some of it in her behavior — to flinch, to startle, to distrust. She did none of that.
She has the sweetest disposition. She can literally — expect her to do anything, take her anywhere — and she just goes with the flow.
— Laura Bradner, Honey's foster mom
Walking again
By the spring of 2026, Honey was walking. Not shuffling, not being supported — walking. A dog who had arrived unable to hold her own head upright, who had been treated for skull fractures on Christmas Eve, was moving through the medical center hallways under her own power. Bradner, who had taken Honey in as a foster once she was stable enough to leave the center, watched the recovery unfold day by day and still found it difficult to fully process.
As of mid-May, Honey has about a month of formal rehabilitation remaining. After that, her future will likely look a lot like her recent months — moving, exploring, responding to the world with what Bradner describes as visible joy.
One more name called
Dr. Grooms had been planning the commencement moment quietly for weeks. He wanted the Class of 2026 to leave their graduation ceremony with something more than a degree — a specific memory of why the work they'd chosen matters, made concrete by an animal they had actually helped care for.
When Honey walked onto the stage, some of the graduates recognized her immediately. They had been on rotation during her treatment. They had run rehabilitation sessions, monitored her recovery, made decisions about her care. She was not a symbol to them — she was a patient. And now she was at their graduation.
I think it just gives them a kind of peek into what they can do and the impact that they can have when taking care of animals. What was really special that Christmas Eve is how our community here at the Lloyd Veterinary Medical Center really came together to take care of Honey.
— Dr. Dan Grooms, Dean of Veterinary Medicine, Iowa State University
What she carries
There is a man somewhere in Des Moines who made a devastating choice on Christmas Eve. He gave up his dog so she could have a chance at a life he couldn't provide for her. He doesn't know that she made it. He doesn't know about the fractures that healed, the rehabilitation sessions, the $27,000 raised by strangers, the graduation hall in Ames. He doesn't know that the students who helped save her got to watch her walk across a stage.
What he knew, on December 24, was that he loved her enough to let her go. The rest of the story belongs to everyone who chose to be part of it.
"You can just see it in her eyes that she just loves life," Bradner said. That, in the end, is what the whole thing was for.