It all started with a dog.
My son, Andy, had been asking for one for months. Every day, the same question: “Dad, can we please get a dog?” He was persistent, and honestly, I was close to saying yes. But there was one more person to convince—my wife, Kelly.
After many conversations, she finally agreed—with one condition: “Fine, but only if it’s small and presentable. We’re not getting a big, messy mutt.”
That was Kelly. She’d grown up in a very tidy household where even pets were expected to be neat and polite. A toy breed, sure. But anything larger or less polished? Not likely.
At the shelter, Andy’s excitement was contagious. He bounced from kennel to kennel, barely glancing at the tiny dogs we’d planned to see. Then he stopped in his tracks.
Inside one kennel sat the scruffiest dog I’d ever seen—tangled fur, a crooked tail, and wide, soulful eyes. She didn’t bark, just watched us quietly, her head tilted.
“She’s not exactly what your mom wanted,” I told Andy gently.
“She needs us,” he said, eyes full of conviction. “Look at her. She’s sad. We can help her.”
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