He stole a piece of bread—but ended up stealing my heart.
From that day on, he was always by my side. He’d greet me at the door with a wagging tail, rest his head in my lap like he belonged there, and offer comfort without ever saying a word.
Then came the day we took a walk and he darted into an alley. A little boy sat there, lost and crying. My companion—whom I’d come to call Rufus—curled up beside him, gently reassuring him until we found his mother. That was just one of many quiet moments that showed me how extraordinary he truly was.
But then I saw the post. A missing dog. A family searching for their beloved Max. The picture looked exactly like Rufus. My chest tightened—but I knew what I had to do.
I called. They came. The moment they saw him, they wept. Rufus was Max. He had gone missing months earlier during a camping trip. The people who left him near Walmart were only trying to help.
Giving him back was the hardest thing I’ve ever done… but it was the right thing.
A few days later, there was a knock on my door. Max’s family stood there, smiling—with two of Max’s puppies in tow.
“We thought you might like a new friend,” they said.
One little pup made her way over and wrapped herself around my leg—just like her father once had.
Sometimes, letting go doesn’t mean losing love.
Sometimes, it means making space for it to return… in a whole new way.
