Hey everyone,
I’ve never done a long post like this before, and honestly, I’m shaking as I type. I can already feel the weight of judgment heading my way. But I’m hoping that by putting my story out there, I’ll find some understanding—or at least some clarity for myself.
I want to share what led me to the worst decision of my life: abandoning my dog. It sounds terrible, and it was terrible. But I’m asking you to hear me out, because there’s a lot more to the story than a simple “I didn’t want my dog anymore.” I can’t take back what happened, but maybe this post will help someone else avoid my mistake. Or maybe it’ll help me find a path forward.
I guess I should start by telling you about the day I met him. He was a tiny bundle of scruffy fur, trembling in the corner of a crate at the local shelter. I’d just come in on a whim, not intending to adopt—at least, not seriously. I wanted to “just look around,” you know? But when our eyes locked, it was like he chose me, right then and there. He was so scared and so quiet, but he had this spark in his eyes, as if he was silently asking for someone to believe in him.
I named him Lucky because that’s how I felt when I took him home—like we were both lucky to have found each other. Right away, he became my shadow, following me from room to room, curling up on the couch next to me, and nuzzling my hand for comfort. I was living on my own for the first time in my life, trying to make sense of adulthood and feeling the stress of bills, rent, and a new job that was on shaky ground. Lucky was my constant source of warmth.
In the beginning, everything felt so perfect. I’d take him on walks in the evening, and we’d come back to watch old sitcoms while sharing snacks. He had this goofy way of tilting his head at me, as if trying to decode every word I said. If I laughed, he’d wag his tail as though he understood the joke. If I cried, he’d rest his chin on my lap. He was my confidant, my buddy, my emotional safety net.
Things started to go downhill about a year later. My workload became massive. I was under pressure to perform at my job, and it was the kind of position where you either hustle like crazy or risk getting replaced. Deadlines became unrelenting, and I found myself spending more and more time at the office, sometimes even crashing there overnight.
My relationship with Lucky changed. I’d come home exhausted, and instead of greeting him with enthusiasm, I’d just flop onto my bed, wanting to sleep. Walks became shorter or non-existent. He’d look at me with confusion, like he couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t the same person I used to be. I felt horrible guilt gnawing at me, but I also felt helpless. I didn’t see a way to balance everything.
Then, money issues started piling up. Vet bills, groceries, rent, utilities—it all became this huge avalanche I couldn’t outrun. One late payment on my rent turned into two, and soon I was on the verge of being evicted. People kept telling me, “You need to cut back on expenses.” And in a twisted way, the expense that stood out was Lucky. The dog food, the vet visits, the time commitment—it all felt like something I couldn’t handle in my downward spiral.
I tried rehoming him responsibly. I talked to friends, posted in local Facebook groups, and reached out to family members. But no one could take him. Or maybe no one wanted to. Some told me, “Just bring him back to the shelter,” but that shelter was at capacity. The waiting list was a mile long, and they told me that older dogs often had a harder time getting adopted. He was no longer that tiny pup—he was now an adult dog with a calm yet anxious personality, and I worried no one would see him the way I did.
Eventually, I reached this breaking point. One night, after a particularly brutal day at work, I came home to find that Lucky had shredded a pillow out of boredom or anxiety. Stuffing was everywhere. My landlord was already on my case about noise and damage in the apartment. It felt like my entire world was caving in. I had no emotional capacity left to handle anything. So, I made a decision that still haunts me.
I put Lucky in my car the next morning and drove aimlessly, tears blurring my vision. I had no plan—just a suffocating panic that I couldn’t do this anymore. At some point, I pulled over in a quiet area outside the city. My heart was pounding, and I was drenched in sweat. Lucky was in the passenger seat, looking at me with complete trust. He had no idea what I was about to do.
I opened the door, took him out on his leash, and walked him a few steps away from the car. My hands were trembling so badly, I could hardly unclip his collar. He was wagging his tail, probably expecting a fun little exploration of a new place. Then I did it—I unclipped his collar, got back into the car, and started the engine.
He chased after me. I saw him in the rearview mirror, sprinting with all his might, desperate to keep up. I could still hear him barking, even though I was speeding away. It’s a sound that’s carved into my memory, echoing in my head whenever I’m alone. That moment… it was like a piece of my soul tore away. I was sobbing so hard I had to pull over again a few miles down the road because I couldn’t see.
I hated myself immediately. The guilt was overwhelming. I kept thinking, “He trusted me. He would’ve followed me anywhere.” But I told myself it was for the best—maybe someone kinder and more stable would find him. Maybe he’d have a better life than I could provide. But deep down, I knew I was lying to myself.
For days, I couldn’t function. I stopped going to work, barely ate, and avoided everyone’s calls. I felt like a monster. The image of him standing on that roadside, confused and abandoned, replayed in my mind over and over. I’d check social media groups to see if anyone had found a stray dog matching his description, but I saw nothing. I wondered if he was even still alive. The shame was unbearable.
Then, one evening, I got a text from an unknown number. It was a photo of Lucky sitting in what looked like someone’s backyard. There was a short message: “I think this is your dog? He has your info on his microchip.” My heart nearly stopped. A million questions flooded my mind. How did they find him? Where was he? Was he okay?
I quickly replied, confessing that I had lost him but not going into detail about how. The person told me they found him wandering along a stretch of road outside the city. He had a small wound on his paw but seemed otherwise healthy. They took him in and scanned for a microchip. That’s how they got my number. They said they could keep him for a few days, but I needed to let them know what I planned to do.
Here’s the thing: part of me wanted to jump in my car and rush to pick him up. But another part of me was still trapped in the same issues that made me leave him in the first place. My job was on the brink, my finances were in ruin, and my landlord had given me a final warning. Could I really bring him back into my life, only to fail him again?
I was torn. The person who found him (let’s call them “Sam”) sounded genuinely kind. They told me that Lucky was a sweetheart and got along well with their own dog. Sam even said they were considering adopting another dog, but they wanted to give me the chance to reclaim him first, since I was listed as the owner.
My mind spiraled with guilt, shame, and fear. I’d grown up believing that abandoning an animal was one of the worst things a person could do. And yet, I had done exactly that. How could I even face Lucky after what I’d done? How could I face Sam, who saw me as this dog’s rightful owner? It felt like I didn’t deserve to have him back.
But then something in me snapped. I remembered the nights I spent lying awake, Lucky curled up at my feet, comforting me with his warmth. I remembered the look in his eyes the day I brought him home. He believed in me once—maybe he still did. I knew if I walked away from him again, I’d regret it for the rest of my life.
So I made a choice: I told Sam that I wanted to see him, to at least say goodbye properly or figure out if there was a way to make this work. Sam agreed. We set a time to meet at a nearby park.
The day of the meeting, my anxiety was off the charts. My stomach was in knots, and my hands were cold as ice. I arrived at the park, scanning the area until I saw Sam sitting on a bench, Lucky at their side. He looked the same and yet somehow different—maybe it was just my own guilt coloring my perception. When he saw me, his tail started to wag hesitantly. I knelt down and held out my hand, tears already welling up. He sniffed my hand and then licked it, gently. That simple gesture nearly broke me. I burst into tears, hugging him and apologizing over and over. It felt like an apology was nowhere near enough, but it was all I had in that moment.
Sam gave me some space to reconnect with Lucky. They told me that they’d fallen for him in the short time they’d been together. They said if I truly wanted to keep him, they wouldn’t stand in my way—but if I felt I couldn’t provide for him, they’d gladly adopt him. That offer felt both like a blessing and a curse. On one hand, I wanted Lucky back so badly. On the other hand, I knew my life was still chaotic, and I feared I’d let him down again.
I’m still figuring it out. Right now, Lucky is with Sam, and I visit him whenever I can. I’m looking for a new job and a cheaper place to live, somewhere with a small yard where Lucky can run around safely. Sam has been incredibly patient and supportive, even though I can see how attached they’ve become to him.
It’s complicated. Part of me wonders if I should just let Sam adopt him permanently, because he’s obviously thriving under their care. But another part of me can’t let go of the hope that I can be the person Lucky deserves. Every time I see him, he wags his tail and looks at me with those trusting eyes, as if he’s already forgiven me. That unconditional love is both heartwarming and heartbreaking.
So that’s where I am right now—caught between wanting to do the right thing and trying to rebuild my life so I can be worthy of Lucky’s trust again. I haven’t made a final decision yet, but I’m determined not to abandon him ever again, even if that means stepping aside and letting him stay with Sam for good. Either way, I want what’s best for him. I owe him that much.
I’m posting this here because I need to get it off my chest, and I guess I’m looking for advice, encouragement, or maybe just a listening ear. I know what I did was horrible, and I don’t blame anyone who reads this and feels disgusted. I feel disgusted with myself too. But I’m trying to make it right, one step at a time.
Thank you for reading this far. I’m not looking for sympathy—I just want to be honest and, hopefully, find a path to a better ending for both me and Lucky. If you’ve ever been in a similar situation or know someone who has, I’d really appreciate any thoughts or guidance. I’m open to hearing it all.
For now, I’m taking it day by day, visiting Lucky and making plans for a future that includes him—whether it’s with me or with Sam. I still feel the pang of guilt every time I think of what I did, but seeing him happy and healthy gives me a glimmer of hope. That hope is all I have to keep me going.
I’m not asking for forgiveness, but I do hope I can eventually forgive myself. And maybe, in time, Lucky and I can find our way back to each other in a life that’s stable, loving, and worthy of his endless loyalty.
TL;DR: I abandoned my dog in a moment of panic and regret it deeply. He was found by a kind person who’s taking good care of him now. I’m trying to turn my life around so I can bring him home again, but I’m torn about what’s truly best for him. I’m taking it day by day, and I hope to figure it out soon.