From Poison to Purpose: How Ember Exposed the Broken System - Ember's Full Story Finally Told

I can still hear it in my head… the sound of Ember’s heart giving way.

What I still struggle with, however, is how this all truly came to pass — and then ended so finally.

What’s strange is that Ember’s very existence began with survival against the odds. In a litter that was lost before it ever began, she was the only heartbeat — the one that broke the cycle of loss before she ever took her first breath. From the start, she wasn’t just alive — she was a fighter.

As I sit here writing this, I remember the evening that changed everything.

She had been out playing. Happy. Loving. Alive — the way Ember always was.

A light no darkness could put out.

The timestamp on the camera footage said 6:42 p.m. Normal. Totally normal.

But by 7:15 p.m., I walked through the door, and my daughter looked at me and said:

“Something’s wrong with Ember, Mom.”

I called out for her, expecting her usual big-girl excitement, that calm strength she always carried.

She tried to come to me — and collapsed.

Got up again — collapsed again.

Her gums were blue. Her body was cold. Her breath was barely there.

I didn’t know what had happened.

But I knew what was happening now: my girl was dying.

Years in the ICU had trained me well. My nursing brain kicked in. We leapt into the car.

I knew I had minutes.

At the ER vet, they took her in right away. I gave report like I would at the hospital: clear, fast, detailed.

I truly believed it might be the last time I saw her alive.

I went home. But I couldn’t sit still.

I started digging. Researching. Running scenarios. Looking for anything that could explain the crash.

Then my phone rang.

The vet had questions — lots of them.

Her methemoglobin levels were critically high. She was in full methemoglobinemia — her blood simply couldn’t carry oxygen.

The first theory? Benzodiazepine ingestion.

I was stunned. That’s a controlled medication — not even something we keep in our house.

But they wouldn’t move off that theory.

What started as care began to feel like accusation.

So I did what any ICU nurse would do: I pulled case study after case study.

One word kept showing up again and again: Tylenol.

Case after case of dogs poisoned by accidental — or intentional — acetaminophen ingestion. And one in particular changed everything: a Dalmatian who survived using a very specific protocol.

That protocol became Ember’s.

I called the vet. I emailed the study. I said:

“Please — try this protocol. We might still have time.”

And they did.

That same night, I went into the yard. Hands and knees. Grass wet. Mind spinning.

And there it was.

One single peanut butter ball, pushed into the P gravel in Ember’s run.

The rain had softened it. It had started to melt. I almost missed it.

But there it was — laced with crushed Tylenol.

I just stood there. Numb.

What was I even looking at?

Who would do this to her?

Was Zarrah next?

We didn’t know who did it. We still don’t.

But we knew one thing: we weren’t too late to fight.

Ember was transferred to MSU’s ICU for nine days of round-the-clock critical care.

She needed multiple blood transfusions, an NG feeding tube, oxygen support, and fluid drained from her abdomen.

Her liver and kidneys had begun to fail, her oxygen had been dangerously low, and her body was carrying the weight of the poison and the fight.

And still — she fought.

We didn’t know how much damage had been done.

Only time would tell.

And then something else happened.

While Ember fought for her life… her story traveled.

I shared updates out of desperation, grief, and rage.

And then the community — this community — showed up.

By the time I arrived at MSU to pick her up, I was ready to pay the $10K+ bill with CareCredit.

Whatever it took, I would do it.

But when I got there, they told me:

The bill was paid.

People had been calling for days — donating in Ember’s name.

Standing behind her. Standing against cruelty.

People who didn’t know her… but saw themselves in her story.

The ICU staff walked her out together — tears in their eyes. They called her a miracle.

And they were right.

I got to bring Ember home.

I got to invest in her healing instead of drowning in debt.

And that day — the day she came home not just because of medicine, but because of community.

That was the day the Ember Reign Foundation was born.

Not on paper.

Not as a nonprofit.

But in my heart.

A mission.

To carry her legacy.

To stand between life and death when answers are few and time is thin.

To speak for those who can’t.

Ember did eventually pass — on August 28, 2025 — from long-term complications caused by the poisoning.

But she gave us three more years.

Three winters. Three birthdays.

And a lineage that now carries her name.

But more than anything, she gave us a fire.

One we’ll never let go out.

Campbell’s Queen Ember Reign wasn’t just a dog.

She was the spark that lit a movement.

But she was also the reason we know:

That love alone isn’t always enough.

Fences didn’t stop it. Cameras didn’t catch it.

The system couldn’t prosecute it.

The first medical response nearly missed it.

Someone crushed up Tylenol and pushed it into her run.

And Ember paid the price.

So we don’t just raise funds for critical emergencies.

We don’t just speak for those without a voice.

We don’t just build tools for when time runs out.

We build what should’ve existed for her.

A Network that sees what others miss — through transparent and relentless research.

Training that teaches dogs to avoid the unimaginable — so no dog suffers from the evil of the world.

Advocates who stay when everyone else steps back — instead of leaving you to question your own reality.

Because in a world that should’ve been safe — Ember was targeted.

And when all else failed, it was instinct, love, and fire that saved her.

So now, in her name, we fight for the ones no one sees coming.

This is her legacy.

Not soft. Not simple. Not fair.

But unshakable.

This is Ember Reign’s Legacy!

The fire that lives in all those who follow…

Moments from a life that changed ours forever.

In Loving Memory of Campbell's Queen Ember Reign

April 23, 2021 – August 28, 2025

Donate in Ember's Honor Today!

Written by: Emilie Campbell, BSN-RN — Founder: Ember Reign Foundation

Editorial Support: Cassie Higgins, Narrative Architect — Discovery Loft

© 2025 Ember Reign Foundation. All rights reserved.

Ember's Story: The Flame That Lit a Foundation" is the exclusive intellectual property of the Ember Reign Foundation. This story, in whole or in part, may not be reproduced, distributed, shared, or recreated without express written permission from the Ember Reign Foundation. This includes but is not limited to: copying, adapting, translating, or using any portion of this narrative for any purpose without authorization.