People think “rock bottom” means losing your home, your job, or even your family. For me, it came the day I realized I hadn’t heard my own name in two weeks—not once—except in the silent language of my dog, Bixby.
He couldn’t speak it out loud, of course, but every morning, he looked at me as if I was still someone worth caring about. Like I was still his person, no matter how far we had fallen.
We’d faced everything together—being evicted, turned away from shelters that didn’t allow pets, and nights spent under a tarp in a quiet alley. Through it all, he never left my side. His tail still wagged when I came back with nothing more than half a sandwich.
One time, after two days without food, someone tossed us a sausage biscuit from a passing car. I broke it in half and gave him his share. He pushed it back toward me, eyes steady, as if to say, “You need it more.” That moment broke me—and healed me—at the same time.
After that, I started carrying a sign—not to ask for money, but to tell our story. People saw the worn clothes, the unshaven face, the tired eyes. What they didn’t see was the way he had kept me alive in more ways than one.
Then, last week, while packing up to move to another spot, a woman in medical scrubs stopped. She looked at Bixby, then at me, and said five words I never expected:
“We’ve been looking for you.”
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