I can’t believe I’m even writing this, but I need to let it all out somewhere.
A few weeks ago, I walked into the shelter—like I’ve done dozens of times before—just to look around. I didn’t plan on adopting a dog that day. I was in the middle of a rough patch at work, my apartment isn’t the most spacious, and money’s tighter than I’d like to admit. But then I saw him.
He was curled up in the back corner of his kennel, head resting on his paws. His fur was all curly and matted in places, but his eyes—those eyes were so gentle. The volunteer told me he’d been returned twice already. Something about not being the right fit, or having separation anxiety, or who knows what else. Honestly, I didn’t care. All I saw was a lonely dog who needed someone to give him a chance.
So, I did the impulsive thing. I took him home.
At first, everything felt so right. I named him Murphy. The first few days were full of cuddles and sweet moments. He would rest his head on my knee every time I sat down. He followed me everywhere—yes, even to the bathroom. I was secretly thrilled at how attached he seemed, how eager he was to be near me.
But then, little by little, the cracks started to show.
On day three, I left for work. I was gone for maybe five hours. When I came back, I found the couch cushions ripped apart, bits of foam all over the living room, and Murphy whimpering behind the door as if he was convinced I’d never return.
He looked so guilty when I walked in. Or maybe “terrified” is a better word. I’m not a dog expert, but the look in his eyes was pure panic, like he was already convinced I was going to get mad and throw him back into the shelter system. He cowered when I raised my voice even slightly, so I tried my best to stay calm.
I cleaned up the mess, gave him a hug, and told him it was going to be okay. But I was lying to both of us because in that moment, I wasn’t sure it was.
The days that followed were a rollercoaster. Some days, Murphy would be perfect. We’d go for a walk, he’d wag his tail at every stranger, sniff around, come home, and curl up by my feet while I worked on my laptop. Other days, I’d leave for a quick grocery run and come back to find something else destroyed—a shoe, a chair leg, even the corner of a throw rug. He seemed to think that every time I left, I might not come back.
I started getting anxious too. I’d wonder if he was okay the moment I stepped out of the house. I’d rush through errands because I was so worried about what might be happening back home. The stress started to affect my job performance. I work remotely half the time, but the other half, I have to be in the office. And when I’m there, all I can think about is what I’ll find when I return.
A couple of weeks in, I decided I needed professional help. I looked up a local dog trainer who specializes in separation anxiety. It’s expensive. Way more than I expected. But I figured I owed it to Murphy to try. If I was truly committed to giving him a forever home, I had to address the root of the problem.
The first session was eye-opening. The trainer explained that dogs who’ve been returned multiple times often develop deep-seated fears of abandonment. She showed me some techniques: leaving for very short periods, gradually increasing the time, and rewarding him when I came back. It sounded so straightforward, so hopeful.
But implementing it has been a challenge.
Every morning, I try the routine: pick up my keys, step outside for a minute, come back, treat Murphy if he stays calm. Some days, he does great. Other days, he barks and howls the second I close the door, and it feels like we’re back at square one.
I’ve started losing sleep over this. I lie awake, imagining all the worst-case scenarios: getting evicted because of noise complaints, having to pay for more damage repairs, or, worst of all, realizing I can’t handle him and taking him back to the shelter myself. The thought alone makes me feel like the worst person on the planet.
The thing is, I’m trying so hard not to give up on him. He’s sweet and loving. He wants nothing more than to be near me. He rests his chin on my chest when I’m on the couch, and I can almost feel his heartbeat slow down as he relaxes against me. In those moments, I can see how badly he wants this to work, too.
But every time I leave him alone, it’s like flipping a switch in his head. He gets this frantic look, and I can hear him whimpering from the other side of the door. If I stand there and wait, he starts scratching, pawing at the door, whining louder. It breaks my heart to hear him in such distress, and it’s making me question if I’m truly capable of giving him the stable life he deserves.
A few days ago, my landlord sent me a text. Someone complained about barking in the afternoons. I guess Murphy was crying when I was gone. The text was polite but firm: “Please address this issue, or we’ll need to discuss alternatives.” My stomach dropped. I’d never felt so cornered. If I lose this apartment, I have nowhere else to go right now. And if I can’t find a dog-friendly place, that leaves me with one dreaded option: returning him.
I swore I wouldn’t do that. When I first brought Murphy home, I promised myself—no matter how tough it gets, I won’t be the person who gives up on him again. But now, with my landlord breathing down my neck and my finances stretched thinner than ever, I’m starting to feel the weight of that promise crushing me.
I’ve talked to a few friends, and the responses are mixed. Some say, “You’ve done your best, maybe he’s just not the right dog for you.” Others say, “Keep trying, he’ll get better with time.” My parents, who live out of state, don’t really understand. They think I should have just gotten a smaller, calmer dog—or none at all. That stings, but I also get it. They’re worried about me, and they don’t want to see me lose my apartment or my sanity over this situation.
But every time I look at Murphy’s face, I see that glimmer of hope. Like he’s silently pleading, “Please, don’t send me back there.” The idea of him sitting in that kennel again, waiting and wondering what he did wrong, is almost too much for me to bear.
It’s not just about the barking or the destruction, though. There’s a deeper layer to this that I can’t quite articulate. I feel like Murphy and I are connected in a way I’ve never experienced with a pet before. Maybe it’s because we’re both a little lost, both trying to find our footing in a world that can be overwhelming.
When I’m stressed or sad, he senses it. He comes over, rests his head on my lap, and I can practically feel him absorbing my anxiety. And when he’s panicking about me leaving, I want to scoop him up and tell him, “I’m not like the others. I won’t abandon you.” But then reality kicks in—my phone rings, my boss is asking where that report is, or the landlord sends another text, and I realize it’s not just about me wanting to keep him. It’s about whether I can keep him without losing everything else.
The trainer suggested medication for Murphy, something mild to help with his anxiety. But that’s another expense on top of the training sessions and the new dog bed he chewed up and the deposit I might have to pay if the landlord finds out about the damage. I’m already stretching my budget, so I’m hesitant to add more to the list. Yet, if medication could ease his suffering, who am I to say no?
I’m in this mental tug-of-war. On one side, there’s the responsible, logical part of me that sees how unsustainable this is becoming. On the other side, there’s the emotional, compassionate part of me that can’t stand the thought of returning him. He’s already been through so much. How do I become another name on the list of people who failed him?
Last night, I had a bit of a meltdown. I came home after working late, found that Murphy had scratched the doorframe again, and just sank to the floor. I felt the tears burning my eyes. Murphy came up, tail tucked, as if he knew I was upset. He nudged my hand, and I just lost it, crying into his fur.
I felt so torn between anger at the situation and pity for him. He can’t help the fact that he’s terrified of being alone. He can’t change his past experiences or erase the memories of being abandoned. But I can’t pretend this is easy. It’s pushing me to a breaking point, and I’m not sure what I’m going to do if something doesn’t give soon.
I’ve started imagining the worst-case scenario: me driving him back to the shelter, handing over the leash, and walking away. The image makes me feel sick. I can’t imagine how confused and betrayed he’d feel. Then I think about the possibility of him going to yet another home, or languishing in the shelter for months, or worse. It’s a dark thought spiral, and I hate that I can’t see a clear solution.
I keep hoping for a miracle. Maybe Murphy will suddenly adapt. Maybe he’ll realize I’m not going to abandon him and calm down. Maybe my landlord will be understanding if I just explain the situation. Maybe I’ll get a raise at work that can help cover training costs. There are so many “maybes,” and I’m clinging to them like a lifeline. But reality doesn’t usually bend to hope alone.
So here I am, sitting on the floor of my living room, Murphy asleep at my side. He’s finally at peace, at least for now. But tomorrow, I’ll have to go to work, and the cycle continues. I feel like we’re racing against time, trying to fix this before the landlord runs out of patience, before my bank account runs dry, before my own mental health takes too big of a hit.
I wish I had a neat, uplifting ending to share—some big epiphany that fixes everything. But life isn’t that simple. I’m stuck in limbo, torn between the fear of losing my home and the guilt of giving up on a dog who just wants to be loved. I have no idea which side will win out.
All I know is that I can’t keep going like this forever. Something has to change, and soon.
But as of right now, I’m not sure what that something is, or if it’s already too late to make a difference.