You don’t truly understand loneliness until your only conversation is with a dog. Bixby, my scruffy shadow, was the reason I woke up each morning during those impossible months. We slept under overpasses, got turned away from shelters, and shared scraps from dumpsters. But he never complained.
One icy dawn, a driver threw us a fast-food breakfast. I split it carefully, but Bixby refused his half—he nudged it toward me with his muzzle. That broke something inside me.
I wasn’t a beggar. I just held a sign, invisible to most. Then a woman in medical scrubs stopped. “We’ve had this photo of you,” she said, showing a snapshot a social worker took weeks prior. There was a room waiting. One that welcomed dogs.
I didn’t believe it.
But within days, we had walls, a door, and a blanket. Bixby slept for twelve hours straight after his first bath in months. My sister Jen tracked me down and offered me a job. I took it—because of the dog who’d given me purpose when I had none.
The lesson? Despair isn’t just hunger or cold. It’s being erased. But sometimes, the universe sends a miracle—or a nurse, or a terrier—to remind you: You still matter.
