Hey everyone,
I’ve never posted anything quite like this before, but I need to let my emotions out somewhere. I’m riding this wave of relief, excitement, and also a pinch of anxiety. A few hours ago, I made a life-changing decision—one I’m not even sure I was ready to make. But now there’s no going back, and I kinda love it.
Let me back up and explain how I got to this point. Because it’s been a wild journey.
I’ve always considered myself a dog lover, but I was never quite sure if I was “ready” to adopt one on my own. You know how it goes: you worry about time, finances, living space, schedules, all the million small factors that swirl through your head whenever the idea of pet adoption comes up. So I stayed in this limbo, occasionally supporting local animal charities or volunteering to walk shelter dogs, but never taking the plunge.
About a year ago, I started volunteering regularly at the local shelter. I figured it would be a good way to get my dog fix without having the full responsibility of ownership. I’d show up on weekends, sign in, and help out with tasks like cleaning kennels, feeding the pups, and giving them as much attention as I could squeeze into a day.
It was during these visits that I first noticed him—a large dog, with a tan-and-white coat and these huge, soulful eyes. I must have walked by his kennel half a dozen times before I paused to properly look at him. He was so quiet that he blended into the background of barking and tail-wagging. While other dogs would jump and bounce at the front of their kennels, he would sit in the back corner, watching everyone with a mix of curiosity and timidness.
The staff told me people repeatedly overlooked him because of his size—he was definitely bigger than the “preferred” dog size around here. From what I gathered, large dogs at the shelter often wait the longest to get adopted. Many families show up looking for a small, fluffy companion that fits in a bag or can be carried around with ease.
This dog, though? He had a presence. Maybe it was the way he held his head, or the gentle way he’d approach anyone willing to give him a chance. He wasn’t hyper or aggressive; he was calm, almost serene. But there was a hint of sadness, too—a resigned look in his eyes. It was like he’d been passed over so many times he figured it was just his fate to stay in that kennel, day after day, week after week.
I started asking questions. How long had he been at the shelter? Had anyone shown genuine interest in adopting him? Did they know anything about his background? The staff told me he was found wandering a local park, completely alone. He had no collar, no microchip, and no one came forward looking for him. That was months ago. Every time they hosted an adoption event, small dogs and puppies would get snatched up in minutes, while my big buddy stayed behind, overshadowed by the cuteness overload of pint-sized pups.
I don’t know what it was about him that got under my skin so deeply. Maybe I saw a bit of myself in him—that sense of waiting for something to change, of hoping someone would see your worth. I found myself drawn to his kennel more and more often. Whenever I was done with my chores, I’d spend an extra few minutes there, offering him a treat, gently scratching his ears, or just talking softly to him.
I remember one afternoon, I was cleaning out an empty kennel next to his, and I looked over. He was staring at me with those big eyes, head tilted slightly to the side. I could almost hear his thoughts: “Hey, can I come with you? I promise I’ll be good.” I burst into tears that day—right there in the middle of the shelter with a mop in my hand—because something about that moment was so heartbreakingly sincere.
But I still told myself I wasn’t ready. I had that typical mental checklist: Did I have enough space? Would I be able to afford a big dog’s food, vet bills, and other expenses? Where would he stay when I traveled? All those perfectly valid concerns. For weeks, I battled this inner voice telling me not to do anything rash, not to let my emotions get the best of me.
At the same time, I watched the months roll by, and this big sweetheart was still there, still being overlooked. Every Saturday, new families would pour in, excited at the thought of bringing home a furry companion. I’d see them scoop up the smaller dogs, take them for a little walk, fill out adoption paperwork, and leave with bright smiles on their faces. Meanwhile, the big boy in the corner watched quietly, wagging his tail the moment anyone would step near his kennel but not getting the same enthusiastic response.
It got to a point where his kennel card had started to get dog-eared and worn from being up for so long. The volunteer coordinator even pulled me aside once and said, “I’m worried about him. He’s been here so long, and as much as we love him, this place isn’t a home. He needs a real family.” I nodded, tears threatening again. Part of me wanted to shout, “I’ll do it! I’ll take him home!” But fear and uncertainty kept me silent.
A few weeks ago, something changed. I was standing in the main lobby, about to head home after feeding all the dogs. I saw yet another family come in—a mom, a dad, and two kids—looking super excited. I guessed they were on a mission to adopt a small dog. Sure enough, one of the staff members guided them to the smaller-dog kennels, bypassing my big buddy’s area entirely.
I’m not sure why that moment in particular snapped me out of my inertia. Maybe it was the final straw. Maybe it was the look in that dog’s eyes as he watched them walk on by, as if he knew, “Yep, they’ll probably pass me over too.” I froze for a second, then marched straight to his kennel, opened the door (we have protocols in place, but I had official volunteer permission to interact with him), and knelt down. He padded over gently and rested his chin on my knee.
I whispered, “You’re coming home with me, buddy. Let’s just… figure it out.” It felt sudden—like I was possessed by the spirit of impulsivity—but at the same time, it felt right. Like it was what I’d wanted to say for months but just didn’t have the courage to admit.
I talked to the shelter staff, and they were more than happy to start the adoption process. They asked me if I was sure. I stuttered, “I think so,” and they smiled because, well, that’s how a lot of adoptions begin: a heart decision rather than a meticulously planned one. Over the next week, I scrambled to dog-proof my apartment. It’s not huge, but it has enough space for a big dog, plus there’s a decent park nearby for walks. I asked friends for crate recommendations, researched pet insurance, stocked up on food, and set up a big fluffy bed in the corner of my living room.
This morning was the big day. I arrived at the shelter bright and early to finalize paperwork. As soon as I got into the lobby, I could hear a chorus of barks and whines from the back. My stomach was in knots—equal parts excitement and terror. Was this a mistake? Was I really ready for this? My mind started swirling with what-ifs: What if he hates my apartment? What if he has separation anxiety? What if he tears up my couch the minute I leave for work?
But then the staff brought him out, and he immediately trotted up to me, wagging his tail so hard his whole backside was shaking. I dropped to my knees, just hugging him, letting that big tan head nuzzle into my shoulder. Every shred of doubt vanished in that moment. I knew we had a journey ahead of us, but it was one I wanted to take, wholeheartedly.
We got him in my car—well, it took a few tries because he was nervous about jumping into the back seat. Eventually, after some coaxing, he settled down, and we drove home. The entire ride, I kept looking in the rearview mirror at him. He was sitting upright, scanning the world outside the window, ears perked. Every now and then, he’d glance at me with a confused but curious expression, like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening.
When we arrived at my apartment, there was a moment of panic: he backed away from the front door as if to say, “Is this safe? Where are you taking me?” So I got down to his level, speaking softly. I said, “This is it, buddy. This is your new home.” Slowly but surely, he followed me inside, sniffing every corner. I let him explore at his own pace. He seemed especially interested in the new bed I’d set up for him—took a few sniffs, circled around it, then plopped down with a heavy sigh. Almost like he was saying, “Okay, guess I’ll give this a try.”
And that’s where things are now. I’m sitting on my couch, writing this out, while he’s laying in that big bed, occasionally lifting his head to watch me type. I still haven’t picked the perfect name for him yet—I have a few ideas, but I want something that captures his gentle, steady spirit. I’m open to suggestions if anyone has a thought.
Honestly, I’m feeling an avalanche of emotions. Part of me is cheering, “You did it! You rescued him!” Another part is freaking out, “What if you fail him? What if you can’t handle the responsibility?” The truth is, I don’t know how this is all going to pan out. I’ve got so many unknowns and a steep learning curve ahead of me. But I also have this overwhelming sense of peace whenever I look over at him. It’s like every time he meets my eyes, he’s telling me, “We’ll figure it out together.”
I don’t want to sugarcoat it. Adopting a dog—especially a big one that’s been in a shelter for months—isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. We’ll probably have to deal with anxiety issues, possible destructive chewing, or maybe even some quirks I haven’t discovered yet. But that’s part of the journey. He’s worth it.
And that’s basically my story so far. For all the times I’ve watched him be overlooked, I finally decided to be the one who sees him. Who recognizes that behind his large frame and unassuming demeanor is a dog that just wants someone to believe in him. And maybe, just maybe, that was exactly what I needed too—someone to believe in me enough to take a leap into uncharted territory.
I can’t say how this will end, because it doesn’t end today. There’s no perfect conclusion. We’re only just beginning. I have a feeling we’ll have ups and downs, successes and setbacks. But for the first time in a long while, I feel like I’m doing something that matters deeply to me, and that’s an indescribable feeling.
All I know is this: right now, in this very moment, he’s here with me, snoring softly, no longer staring through chain-link at people who pass him by without a second glance. He’s home. Or at least, he’s on the path to really feeling like it’s home.
And for that, I’m grateful—and more than a little awestruck.
(Wish me luck, everyone. I think I’m gonna need it.)