I’m writing this because I feel like I’m losing my mind. I can’t explain to my friends or family just how heavy this guilt is, or how overwhelming it feels every time I think of my little puppy still living in that pet store.
It’s my fault, in a way.
I was the one who locked eyes with him a few weeks ago. I was the one who fell in love with that tiny, curly fluff-ball behind the glass. I told myself I’d come back for him, that I’d figure out the cost, the time, the living situation—everything. But life moves so fast. And I didn’t move fast enough. Now it’s been weeks, and he’s still there.
But something’s changed about him.
It’s like his spark is gone.
When I first met him, he was playful and mischievous. He would tug at the corner of that little blanket the store put out for him. He’d chase after the squeaky toy with so much excitement, he’d tumble over his own paws. I remember laughing so hard when he tried to bark for the first time—it came out in this cute, awkward squeak that didn’t quite sound like a bark at all.
But after a few weeks…he’s not that same bright-eyed puppy anymore. He mostly curls up in the corner. He stops wagging his tail as soon as he realizes people are just passing through. And the worst part is the look in his eyes. It’s like he’s given up. I swear, the last time I visited, he gave me a glance that said, “You keep coming back, but you never take me away. Why?”
And I don’t have a good answer for him.
I’ve been going by almost every day—even if just for a few minutes—trying to show him a little affection. I bring him treats (though I’m not even sure if I’m allowed to feed them to him, so I do it discreetly when the store owner isn’t watching). I whisper softly to him, telling him to hang in there, that I’m working on it. That everything’s going to be okay soon.
But I’m not sure if I believe my own words.
Because deep down, I’m afraid it won’t be.
The store owner has started making comments about me spending too much time with the puppy. I guess I can’t blame them—it’s a business, they have to keep track of people coming in and out, especially folks who look like they’re loitering. But it’s humiliating. Every time I step in now, they give me this look that practically screams: “Buy him or stop coming back.”
Believe me, I want to. It kills me not to be able to right now. But the timing’s off. My landlord is on the fence about allowing pets. I’ve been working extra shifts to try to cover adoption fees and supplies. My schedule is insane. I’m trying to find ways to give him the home he deserves, but I just can’t sign the papers until my living situation is more stable. And while I try to fix everything, he’s sitting there, day after day, behind that lonely glass enclosure.
It feels so wrong. I feel like I’m betraying him.
I get a hollow ache in my stomach thinking about what he’s going through overnight. The store closes at 8 PM. All the staff leave, and the lights go dim. He’s just…there. Surrounded by other animals who might be just as lonely and confused. He doesn’t know if anyone’s coming back. He doesn’t know why no one wants to take him home. He doesn’t understand that I’m trying to work out the details.
I imagine him curled up in a corner, whimpering quietly. My chest tightens thinking about it. I can’t help but feel like a horrible person. If you could see his eyes, you’d know exactly what I mean. They’re starting to lose that spark that made him so special.
It’s not as simple as “just rescue him.” I’ve tried contacting local shelters to see if they can intervene or give me some guidance, but they say that once the puppy’s part of a retail store, it’s mostly a financial transaction. I can’t just swoop in and adopt him without paying the store’s fees, which, let me tell you, are not cheap. I’ve heard so many conflicting stories about where these puppies come from, whether they’re from responsible breeders or not. It breaks my heart to think of the possibility that he might be from a place that prioritizes money over well-being.
Every night, I lie in bed scrolling through photos of him on my phone. Yes, I’ve taken a bunch of pictures. It’s the only thing that keeps me going sometimes, reminding me of the moment we first connected. But lately, every time I see those photos, I start imagining the worst. I start picturing the next time I walk in and…he’s gone, sold to someone else who might not even give him the love and care he needs.
And I’m left without closure, knowing I didn’t act fast enough.
Then there are times when I think: maybe that’s better. Maybe it’s better if someone else takes him home. Someone who has a backyard and a house and the time to play with him all day. Maybe my place is too small for him to be happy. Maybe my schedule is too crazy. Maybe I can’t give him what he deserves.
But then, I circle right back to the thought of losing him to someone else. The idea that he’ll forget all about me, or worse, get taken by someone who won’t love him like I do. And that’s a whole different kind of heartbreak. It’s like a moral dilemma in my head—I want what’s best for him, but I also want him with me.
I can’t shake this pit in my stomach. It’s like every day I hesitate, I’m causing him more despair. He used to wag his tail so vigorously that his whole body would wiggle. Now, if he wags it at all, it’s just a slow, half-hearted motion. When I visit, he seems to perk up for a second when he sees me, and then it’s like he remembers: “You’re the person who always leaves me behind.”
And you know what? That hits me like a ton of bricks. The guilt is almost unbearable.
I try to talk to friends about it, but they say I’m being too emotional. They say, “It’s just a dog,” or “If you can’t afford it right now, it’s not meant to be.” That kind of logic doesn’t make this any easier. Because it’s not just a dog to me. I’ve developed a connection with him in a way I never thought possible, especially in such a short time. It feels like I’m letting a friend down every time I walk out of the store.
There was this moment a couple of days ago that I can’t get out of my head. I was by his glass pen, and he was lying there looking all sad. I tapped gently on the glass to get his attention, and he lifted his head. I started talking to him softly, like I usually do—just silly, reassuring words about how I was trying my best, how I missed him whenever I wasn’t around. He slowly stood up and pressed his nose against the glass where my hand was. For a split second, it felt like we were bridging that barrier, both physically and emotionally.
And then a store employee came over and asked me to step back. I wasn’t even doing anything wrong—I wasn’t banging, wasn’t causing a scene, just whispering to him. But they insisted it was store policy. No prolonged contact unless I was a “serious buyer.” I walked away with tears in my eyes, feeling more powerless than ever.
I hate that I don’t have a solution. I hate that I’m stuck in this limbo of wanting to rescue him but being unable to. And I hate that I can’t seem to think about anything else lately. Work is starting to notice I’m distracted. My roommates ask why I’m so quiet. And all I can do is fixate on this situation that feels like it’s spiraling out of my control.
The last time I saw him, he wouldn’t even stand up. He just laid there, chin resting on his paws, eyes half open. I tried everything to get him to respond—making little kissing noises, snapping my fingers lightly, calling him sweet nicknames. Nothing. He just stared blankly, almost as if he’d forgotten the meaning of fun. That terrified me more than anything else so far. Because if this puppy—who was once so full of life—can lose hope this quickly, what does that say about the rest of us? It’s like seeing innocence die in slow motion.
I keep thinking about what to do next. Do I try to find an emergency foster situation? Do I crowdsource the adoption fee? Do I risk going behind my landlord’s back and just hope for the best? Every option feels complicated, layered with problems and potential repercussions.
Still, I can’t shake the desire to do something drastic—like one of those midnight rescue scenarios you read about in online forums. But I know that’s unrealistic, not to mention illegal. The real world doesn’t work like that, and there’s so much at stake if I break any rules.
My heart is heavy, and I’m ashamed to say I haven’t made up my mind. All I know is that I can’t keep watching him waste away in that cramped space while my life rushes past. I want to be the hero of this story, the one who scoops him up and carries him out of that shop into a loving home. But I’m also terrified. Terrified of making a decision I can’t sustain. Terrified of bringing him into my cramped apartment, only to realize I can’t handle the expenses or the time commitment. Terrified of risking eviction if my landlord decides not to bend the rules.
But he needs me.
I need him, too.
And that need is what twists my stomach into knots whenever I think about him spending another night in that lonely place.
There’s no happy ending here. Not yet, anyway. I’m sitting on my living room floor right now, staring at the phone number for the pet store, wondering if this will be the night I call and say, “I’ll do it.” But even if I do, there are so many loose ends to tie up. My finances, my lease, my job, my schedule… it’s all a mess.
I wish I had a perfect solution. I wish I had parents who could pitch in, or a best friend who’d say, “I’ll keep him for you until your place is settled.” But I don’t. It’s just me. And I’ve never felt so alone, even though this is about my puppy’s loneliness, too.
All I know is that something’s going to happen soon—either I leap and take the risk, or I walk away and let someone else claim him. But I can’t keep dragging this out. Each day I wait, he’s sinking deeper into that sadness. Each day I hesitate, I can see the spark fading from his eyes.
And I’m not sure if I can live with the person I’ll become if I let that happen.
I’m torn, scared, and so incredibly heartbroken. I don’t know which direction my next step is going to take me. But something’s got to give.
Because I can’t stand seeing him like that anymore. And if I don’t do something soon, I’m afraid both of us will be too far gone to save.