Surviving Witness in the Backseat: Renee Good’s Loyal Black Dog Emerges Unharmed from Fatal ICE Shooting, Offering Silent Comfort to a Grieving Widow
A black dog sat calmly in the backseat of a silver Honda Pilot on a frozen Minneapolis street, its dark fur catching the pale January light filtering through the half-open window. The dog’s ears were perked, eyes fixed on the scene unfolding outside—agents in tactical gear, neighbors blowing whistles in quiet protest, and Renee Nicole Good at the wheel, speaking softly to the man approaching her vehicle. In the footage captured by an ICE agent’s body camera and later obtained by CNN, the dog appears utterly at peace, a quiet observer to the escalating tension that would, in seconds, end Renee’s life and leave a nation reeling.
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That dog—unnamed in public accounts but now etched into the collective memory as a symbol of innocent survival—lived through the chaos that claimed Renee on January 7, 2026. While bullets tore through the driver’s side window and Renee slumped over the steering wheel, the dog remained unharmed, still in the backseat as the SUV lurched forward, veered down Portland Avenue, and came to a crashing stop. In the frantic aftermath, as SWAT teams swarmed and bystanders screamed, Renee’s wife Becca Good—standing just feet away—cried out desperately: “There’s a dog in the back. Can someone get it for me, please?” Moments later, she retrieved the black dog herself, cradling it on the steps of a nearby home while officers secured the scene and grief overtook her.
The dog’s survival was not just a footnote to tragedy; it became an exclusive focus in People magazine’s reporting, a poignant detail that humanized the horror and underscored the randomness of survival. Here was a creature that had witnessed everything—Renee’s calm words (“I’m not mad at you”), the sudden gunfire, the crash—and emerged physically unscathed, a living link to the woman described by her loved ones as “pure sunshine.” The dog’s calm demeanor in the footage, its unflinching gaze amid rising voices and drawn weapons, has haunted viewers. It sat there, black coat sleek against the gray upholstery, seemingly unfazed by the violence that unfolded inches away, embodying a quiet loyalty that words struggle to capture.
Renee Nicole Good was 37, a mother of three, a poet whose words had won awards, and a woman who had spent her life choosing compassion over fear. Born in Colorado, she carried a guitar she played imperfectly but with heart, wrote poetry that moved strangers, and built a family across marriages and moves. Her first marriage produced two children; her second, to Timmy Macklin Jr., brought a third—a boy who was only six when he lost his father in 2023 and then his mother three years later. With Becca, her third spouse, Renee sought refuge in Canada after the 2024 U.S. election, yearning for safety. They returned to Minneapolis in the summer of 2025, drawn by a “vibrant and welcoming community” where they could make friends, spread joy, and raise their youngest son to believe in kindness.
That morning, January 7, they had just dropped their six-year-old at school. The day felt ordinary until they encountered the ICE operation sweeping through south Minneapolis neighborhoods. Federal agents—up to 2,000 deployed in what was described as the largest such surge in Minnesota history—were executing raids targeting suspected immigration fraud but creating widespread fear in immigrant-heavy areas. Reports of warrantless arrests, battering rams at doors, and children too scared to attend school had circulated for days. Renee and Becca joined neighbors in a peaceful response: blowing whistles to alert residents, recording interactions, providing information about rights—standard legal observer activities protected under the First Amendment.
Renee parked her Honda Pilot sideways across Portland Avenue to monitor the scene. Becca stood outside, speaking with an agent. The black dog—visible in the body-cam footage with its head tilted curiously—remained in the back, window down, watching. Cell phone videos from bystanders and the agent’s own recording captured the escalation. Renee began turning the wheel to drive away. Agent Jonathan Ross—an Iraq War veteran with a decade at ICE—fired three shots in less than two seconds. One struck her right forearm, another her breast, a third her head. The vehicle rolled forward, crashing down the block. Renee was rushed to Hennepin Healthcare but pronounced dead. The Hennepin County Medical Examiner ruled the death a homicide caused by multiple gunshot wounds from a law enforcement officer.
DHS and ICE immediately asserted self-defense: Renee had “weaponized” her SUV in an attempt to strike Ross. The Trump administration amplified the claim, labeling her a “domestic terrorist.” Yet the footage told a different story to many viewers—Renee steering away, no aggressive maneuver visible. Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey called the narrative “bullshit” after reviewing the video and demanded ICE leave the city. Governor Tim Walz proclaimed January 9 “Renee Good Day.” Protests swelled at the intersection of Portland and 38th, near the George Floyd memorial, with mourners leaving flowers, children’s toys, poems, and candles. Signs read “Justice for Renee” and “She Was Pure Sunshine.”
Amid the outrage, the dog’s story emerged as a quiet, heartbreaking thread. The black dog—sleek, dark-coated, with an alert but gentle presence—had been there from the beginning. In the body-cam stills, it sits upright, ears forward, eyes locked on the action outside. No panic, no barking—just watchful calm. When the shots rang out and the car lurched, the dog stayed put, unharmed by shattered glass or flying debris. As Becca screamed “My wife!” and pleaded for help, her focus shifted momentarily to the animal still inside the wrecked vehicle. A neighbor recalled Becca saying, “There’s a dog in the back,” her voice breaking as she asked for assistance retrieving it.
Becca got to the car, opened the back door, and lifted the dog out. Together they retreated to the steps of a nearby house, where she sat holding the animal close while officers worked the scene. The dog leaned into her, a silent companion in the chaos. Reunited with Becca as she grieved, the black dog became an immediate source of comfort—a living reminder of Renee’s love, her routines, the daily walks and car rides they shared. In the days that followed, as Becca navigated the unimaginable task of telling their six-year-old son that Mommy wouldn’t be coming home, the dog remained by her side, offering wordless solace.
The dog’s survival carried profound emotional weight. In a story dominated by violence and division, this animal represented innocence untouched by the hatred that claimed Renee. It had seen her final moments—heard her calm voice, felt the jolt of gunfire—and yet lived on, a testament to resilience. Becca’s plea for the dog’s safety amid her own devastation highlighted the depth of her bond with Renee; even in shock, she thought of the creature Renee had loved. The black dog’s sleek form, its steady gaze in the footage, its calm presence on those steps—all became symbols of what endures when everything else is lost.
Renee’s family—her parents Tim and Donna Ganger, her four siblings, her children—spoke through attorneys at Romanucci & Blandin, the firm that represented George Floyd’s family. Their statement, released January 14, echoed Becca’s earlier words: Renee was “the beautiful light of our family,” pure joy, boundless compassion. They missed her in the everyday—the songs, the poems, the hugs. They urged empathy and accountability, establishing a hotline for tips and pursuing civil claims under the Federal Tort Claims Act.
The incident was the first in a series of fatal federal encounters in Minneapolis that month. On January 24, ICU nurse Alex Pretti was killed during another protest against raids, intensifying calls for reform. ICE’s use-of-force policies face scrutiny—nine shootings since September 2025, four fatal. Renee’s case highlights the lack of external oversight compared to local police.
Yet through the legal battles and protests, the black dog remains a poignant emblem. It survived the bullets, the crash, the trauma, and now lives on with Becca, a quiet guardian of Renee’s memory. In its dark coat and steady eyes, it carries the legacy of a woman who believed in kindness, who chose compassion over fear. As Minneapolis thaws from that winter storm, as memorials accumulate fresh flowers, the dog walks the streets Renee once did—unharmed, unwavering, a surviving witness to love that outlasted violence.
