Hey everyone,
I’m not even entirely sure how to begin this, but here goes. I’ve got a dog who’s been labeled as “too ordinary” by pretty much everyone who’s passed him by. You know when people come into a shelter and they’re looking for something that immediately grabs them—maybe a puppy with bright blue eyes or a distinctive spotted coat—well, my dog doesn’t have any of that. He’s just… a medium-sized, short-haired, brownish dog with a black muzzle. Completely average in almost every visible way. And yet, to me, he’s become one of the most exceptional souls I’ve ever met.
Let me back up a bit, because I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m not an expert in canine psychology, nor am I some dog trainer who knows all the lingo. I’m just someone who got involved at this local shelter a couple years ago—originally I was volunteering for a project at my university. I remember that first day walking through the rows of kennels. Some dogs barked, some whined, others cowered in the back. But there was this one dog who just quietly watched me. Not a single bark. No wag either, but I could see a hint of curiosity in his eyes. I thought, “Wow, is he shy? Or just calm?” I couldn’t tell yet. I didn’t realize how big a part of my life he’d become.
Anyway, I had to assist with feeding and cleaning that day. One of the more seasoned volunteers told me, “Oh, that’s the one we’ve had for ages. People think he’s too ordinary.” I felt a bit floored. How do you even label a dog as “too ordinary?” But I kind of nodded along, trying to absorb everything. As the months went by, I noticed how nearly every other dog found a home—some after days, some after weeks—but this particular guy just got overlooked time and time again.
I can’t describe the shame I felt every time an adopter would walk right past his kennel. Sometimes they’d pause for a moment, read the little bio on his cage, glance at him, then move on. And I’d catch glimpses of him. He’d look at them, head tilted, tail slowly wagging. Quietly hopeful. Then, each time, he’d watch them walk away. No one gave him more than a cursory consideration.
I used to wonder if there was some big hidden problem—like maybe he didn’t get along with kids or other dogs. But actually, from what I’ve seen, he’s pretty good around everyone. Some dogs, especially the smaller ones, might intimidate him or vice versa, but overall, he’s not aggressive. He’s neither hyper nor super cuddly—just… balanced. The staff tested him around children, loud noises, bigger dogs, you name it, and he was always quietly okay with it. No dramatics, no big meltdown, no special quirks that made him stand out, either positive or negative.
I’d hang out in his kennel sometimes when I was done cleaning. I’d sit on the floor and gently offer him treats, which he’d take so politely—like he was thanking me every time. And then he’d lean into my side, as if to say, “You can leave now, but thanks for the treat.” I remember calling my mom that evening, telling her about this dog that no one seemed to want. She told me I should adopt him if my heart was telling me so. At the time, though, I wasn’t financially stable enough to commit. And let’s be real—adopting a dog is a big responsibility. I was in no place to do it then.
After months of volunteering, I’d see other volunteers come and go, but I stayed on, partially because of him. I can’t remember exactly when it happened, but there was one day I took him out to the little play yard behind the shelter. Usually, he’d sniff around, then come back and lean on my legs or look at me with that big, expectant gaze. But on this day, he did something different. He ran to the fence, sniffed, then took off running around in circles, doing these random zoomies like he had a sudden jolt of puppy energy. And it just… melted me. Because it meant he was finally letting his guard down.
So I started making it a routine. Each time I volunteered, I’d spend at least 15 minutes giving him one-on-one time. We’d walk around the block, or I’d let him sniff the grass in front of the building, or we’d just sit in the sunshine. I almost felt guilty, because my job was to help all the dogs, not just him. But he was the one that captured my attention the most. Maybe it’s because he’d been there so long without a champion. Or maybe it was how our personalities seemed to align—both a bit awkward at first, but gentle once we get comfortable.
He had two or three interviews (that’s what I call them, anyway—when adopters come and meet a dog up close). Each time, people were on the fence. They’d say things like, “Well, we were hoping for something a bit more playful,” or “We want a small dog to fit our apartment,” or “We really wanted a unique look.” It broke my heart. And you could see him losing hope, at least that’s what it looked like to me. He’d greet them politely but not with the over-the-top enthusiasm some other dogs would. And, ironically, that calmness is one of his best traits in my opinion. But apparently it made him forgettable to people who wanted an immediate spark.
Another moment that stands out for me: one evening, I stayed past closing with a staff member to help reorganize the storeroom. It was dark, and all the kennel lights were off except for a few. I walked by my dog’s cage and he was resting his head on his paws, eyes half-open. He didn’t get up or bark—he just sort of watched me with this gentle acceptance. I felt this wave of sadness, like I wanted to scream at the injustice of it all. This dog was loyal, loving, calm, and everything you’d want in a pet if you took the time to see it. But “too ordinary.” The words rang in my head like a harsh label—like some kind of unbreakable curse.
I ended up losing sleep over this. I know that sounds dramatic, but once you care about a creature like that, once you’ve built that connection, you start feeling responsible. Every day he stayed there felt like a personal failure. So one morning, after some serious reflection, I marched into the shelter and told them, “I’m going to foster him for a while, see how he does in a home environment, and help promote him.” The staff was thrilled. They were more than happy to let me take him out of the kennel, if only to give him a little break from shelter life.
Bringing him to my tiny apartment was a huge step. I was so nervous. Like, what if he turned out to be destructive, or had separation anxiety, or anything else that would keep him from being adoptable? I remember opening the door and letting him in. He slowly walked around, sniffing corners. After a minute, he sat down in the middle of the room, looked at me, and gave the most gentle wag of his tail. That was it—he was home. I nearly cried.
The first few days were interesting. We took short walks, and I introduced him to my roommate, who was initially skeptical about fostering. But it was impossible not to love him. He never barked inside the house, never had an accident, always seemed to accept his place. He slept on a folded blanket I put out for him in the living room. I wanted to see if he’d jump on the couch, but he never tried. He was always just… polite. I can’t think of a better word than that.
Then came the part about “promoting him.” I posted on social media, wrote about his temperament, took a bunch of pictures, tried to highlight his best qualities. But as you can guess, the flashy or quirky dogs seemed to get all the attention online. People want these Instagram-ready pups, and I get it—everyone has preferences. But it frustrated me to no end when people would ask, “Does he do any funny tricks? Does he have a unique pattern?” I’d want to scream, “He’s special in his own way, can’t you see that?” But I tried to remain calm and polite, just like he would.
Time passed. Weeks, then a couple months. No real leads. I realized I was inching closer to adopting him myself, but my financial situation was still iffy, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready for a lifelong commitment. Yet the thought of bringing him back to the shelter tore me up inside. I’d stare at him lying in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window, and I’d ask him, “Do you want to live here forever?” as if he could answer. He’d just look at me with those gentle eyes, like he was grateful for every minute outside that cage.
But then, something changed. A family reached out after seeing one of my posts. They said they had kids who were used to big, calmer dogs, and they wanted to set up a meeting. I arranged a time and place for them to meet him in a calm environment—a local park with plenty of shade and space to walk around. I was so anxious, worried about how their kids might react or whether he’d be too docile for them. But the kids lit up the second they saw him. They patted his back, giggled at how he leaned into them for more pets, and he actually wagged his tail with a bit more vigor than usual. It felt… perfect. Or at least, like it had the potential to be perfect.
We talked for nearly an hour, discussing training, vet visits, what his daily routine might look like in their home. They seemed genuinely invested in making sure he’d be a good fit. I was so hopeful I could barely keep my hands from shaking. At the end of the meetup, the parents said they wanted a couple days to make the final decision—no rush, they just wanted to be absolutely sure. I understood, but man, waiting for that call was torture. Every passing minute felt like I was balancing on the edge of a cliff.
Those days were… surreal. I went back to my usual routine, but I was on pins and needles. I kept glancing at my phone, expecting it to ring. Part of me braced for the worst. After all, we’d been let down so many times. But there was a stronger part of me that clung to hope, because I couldn’t help but see how the kids bonded with him during that short meetup. Even he seemed a bit different after meeting them—like he had a spark of excitement in his eyes. Maybe he sensed that this could be it.
Finally, the call came one evening when I was in the middle of cooking dinner. I nearly spilled spaghetti all over the floor in my rush to answer. They said, “Yes, we’d like to proceed with an adoption. He seems like a wonderful dog.” I blurted out something along the lines of, “You won’t regret it,” trying not to cry right there on the phone. My dog was lying at my feet, looking up at me like he knew something good was happening, even if he couldn’t understand the words.
Now, I’d love to tell you that everything was wrapped up in a neat little bow right then and there. But we still had to go through the shelter’s adoption process, get the paperwork done, arrange a home check, finalize everything. It’s not a short process, and it shouldn’t be. But we’re moving forward, step by step. The family and I keep in touch almost daily, just going over the little details. They keep asking questions about his routine, what brand of food he likes, whether he’s particular about his chew toys. And all I can say is that I’m thrilled they’re so invested.
It’s not a done deal yet—there are still forms to sign, final approvals, and a transition period for the dog to adapt to the new environment. Part of me is terrified. I’ve gotten so attached, and now I’m going to have to let him go if all goes well. But it’s a hopeful kind of heartbreak, because I know this is what I wanted all along—for him to find a home where he’s not “too ordinary,” but instead just right.
I’m sitting here typing this, watching him nap on the couch (I gave in and let him on the furniture, no regrets). He looks so peaceful that it’s hard not to wonder about the future. If everything goes according to plan, this may be the last week he spends in my apartment. On one hand, I’m relieved he might finally get what he deserves: a loving forever home. On the other hand, I’m dreading the moment I say goodbye.
Still, I’m clinging to that moment of hope—the one that felt impossible all this time. I know we’re not completely there yet, but for the first time, it feels like he might soon have the kind of life every dog deserves. No more lonely kennel, no more being passed over. Just a family who sees how extraordinary he truly is.
So, here I am, crossing my fingers, waiting for that final confirmation that will bring both heartbreak and joy. Regardless of how things turn out, I wanted to share this piece of my journey. Because maybe someone out there will see this and realize that the “ordinary” dogs—the ones without fancy coats or viral-ready antics—can be the most extraordinary companions if we only give them a chance.
Wish me luck. I’ll update when there’s more news, but for now, I’m just trying to cherish every minute with him. Whether he ends up in that new home or stays with me a bit longer, I have to believe that all this time spent waiting will finally lead him to the happiness he’s earned—no matter how “ordinary” the world claims he is.
Thanks for reading. I appreciate the support more than I can express. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that love doesn’t need flashy bells and whistles to be real and powerful. Sometimes, the quiet, unassuming ones are the ones who teach us the most.