I’ve never been one to share personal stories online, but I feel like I’m bursting at the seams and need an outlet.
I want to talk about how I ended up with a dog everyone said was “too big” and “too much trouble,” and how he nearly lost everything—how we both nearly lost everything—because of that one phrase: “He takes up too much space.”
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had this soft spot for animals. I was the kid who’d go out of my way to rescue stray cats, feed the ducks at the pond, and secretly bring home frogs in my backpack, much to my parents’ dismay. I just couldn’t stand the thought of any creature feeling abandoned or unloved.
But the last couple of years have tested me in ways I never saw coming.
About a year ago, I was scrolling through a social feed—just mindlessly tapping through post after post—when I came across a picture of a dog at a local shelter. He had the saddest brown eyes I’d ever seen. His face had this gentle expression, like he was tired of waiting, tired of hoping. The post was short and to the point: “He takes up too much space, so they leave him with none.” It broke my heart.
I found out through the comments that he’d been surrendered by a family who said he was “too big and too energetic.” I mean, yeah, he was a large dog. Probably part Boxer, part Lab, part who-knows-what. But how do you just decide you don’t have room for a dog anymore, especially if you once called him family?
I remember that night vividly because I didn’t sleep at all. My mind kept replaying that phrase: “He takes up too much space.” It was haunting me. I’d roll over and check my phone, looking at the post over and over, trying to figure out if there was something I could do.
I wasn’t exactly in the best place in my life at the time. I was between jobs, dealing with some tough personal stuff, and definitely not looking for another responsibility. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had to meet this dog.
The next morning, I mustered the courage to visit the shelter. My heart was pounding the entire drive over. I didn’t know if he’d even still be there. And if he was, would I be making the biggest mistake of my life by taking him home when I was barely holding things together as it was?
When I arrived, the shelter was busier than I expected. Volunteers and employees were running around, trying to manage all the animals. There were people looking at cats, some people playing with puppies, and me—an anxious mess—trying to locate the dog from the post.
Finally, I saw him. He was lying on the cold concrete, leaning against the chain-link gate of his kennel, and he looked… defeated. He wasn’t whining, barking, or pacing like a lot of the other dogs. He just lay there, watching people pass by as if he’d given up hoping that anyone would stop for him.
One of the volunteers let me into his kennel. As soon as I stepped in, he slowly stood up, stretched, and then gently rested his head against my leg. It was the softest, most heartbreaking greeting I’d ever experienced. His tail wagged just a little, like he was afraid to get too excited.
I can’t explain the rush of emotions I felt. It was this overwhelming mix of sadness, empathy, protectiveness, and an odd sense of hope—like, maybe this dog and I were meant to find each other at this exact moment.
The adoption process was straightforward, but the shelter staff warned me that he might have some separation anxiety because of being abandoned. They also mentioned that he might require more space than the average dog due to his size and energy level. “He just loves to sprawl out,” one of them said, trying to lighten the mood.
I took him home that same day. My apartment wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t tiny either. I thought, “Well, I’ll make it work somehow.” I stocked up on dog food, got him a comfy bed, and introduced him to my living room.
From day one, I could tell he was grateful. He followed me around, wagging his tail at every little thing I did—like me making coffee or checking the mail was the highlight of his entire day.
But it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows.
About a week in, my landlord noticed I had a large dog. She wasn’t exactly thrilled. I’d mentioned a pet in my lease agreement, but I guess she didn’t expect him to be so big. She gave me that look, you know the one—like she was already judging my decision.
For the first month, I tried to keep him as quiet and well-behaved as possible, but accidents happen. He knocked over a plant in the hallway once, and my landlord found the mess before I could clean it up. Another time, he barked at a stranger passing by our door in the middle of the night, and I got a noise complaint.
The tension started to rise. I felt like I was walking on eggshells, worried I might get evicted if things didn’t calm down. And, to be honest, I was second-guessing my decision. Did I do the right thing adopting a dog of this size, given my circumstances? Would he be happier somewhere else with a big yard?
Yet, every time I looked at him, sprawled out on my rug or resting his chin on my lap, I knew I couldn’t give up on him. The thought of him going back to the shelter, or worse, was unbearable.
I started to take him on long walks around the neighborhood at odd hours, trying to avoid running into too many people or other dogs. It was good for both of us. I got some much-needed exercise and alone time to think, and he got to explore. He loved sniffing every tree, mailbox, and patch of grass. Sometimes, we’d just sit on a park bench together, and he’d rest his big head on my knee while I petted him.
In those moments, it felt like all the stress melted away. It was just us—no landlord, no judgments, no ticking clock.
But then, reality would set in again when we returned to the apartment. I’d check my mail, worried about a letter from the landlord. I’d flinch whenever he barked, hoping it wouldn’t spark another complaint.
Over the next few weeks, I had several tense conversations with my landlord. I tried to explain that he was just a dog who needed love and stability, and that I was doing everything in my power to be a responsible pet owner. I think she could see how sincere I was, but she was also worried about the other tenants complaining.
She gave me a deadline to either figure something out or find a new place. I was devastated. I had already invested so much emotional energy into caring for him. How was I supposed to just uproot everything? Money was tight, job prospects weren’t great, and now I was faced with potentially losing my home or losing him.
I turned to friends and family for help. Some were supportive, offering to let me crash at their place if I had to move out. Others gently suggested maybe re-homing him. That idea tore me apart. Re-homing him felt like betrayal, like I’d be doing exactly what his previous owners did—saying he took up too much space, so I had no space for him at all.
In the midst of all this chaos, something amazing started happening: He blossomed. Despite the stress in my life, he became more playful, more affectionate, and more confident. It’s like he knew he was finally in a place where someone genuinely cared about him.
He stopped trembling whenever we passed through the door to go on walks. He began greeting neighbors with a gentle wag of his tail (though a few were still intimidated by his size). He even learned a couple of tricks: “sit” and “shake,” which he performed proudly for a treat.
Meanwhile, I was scrambling to apply for jobs, trying to figure out a budget for a potential move. It felt like every day brought a new hurdle. One afternoon, I got a call for a job interview. It wasn’t my dream position, but it was a step in the right direction.
The next day, I got a call from a friend who knew of a small house for rent just a few miles away. It was older, not in the best neighborhood, but it had a fenced backyard and a more lenient pet policy. The rent was slightly higher, but maybe I could swing it if I got the new job.
I remember looking at my dog sleeping on the couch that evening. He’d somehow twisted himself into the weirdest, most comfortable position, snoring softly. I thought, “Is this what everyone was so afraid of? That he’d take up too much space on a couch or a floor or in their hearts?” Because I realized then that he didn’t just take up space physically—he took up emotional space, too. He made me confront my own capacity for love, responsibility, and sacrifice. And, yeah, it’s scary to care so deeply for another living being. But it’s also what makes life worth living.
So here I am, juggling a thousand unknowns.
I haven’t fully resolved the situation yet. I still don’t know if I’ll get that job or if I’ll be able to afford that little house with the backyard. I’m still at my apartment, tiptoeing around, hoping the landlord will be patient a bit longer.
But I feel a spark of hope. My dog is doing well, and I can’t imagine letting him go now. He’s become my anchor, a reason to keep pushing forward even when it feels like the walls are closing in.
I guess the reason I’m sharing all of this is that I’m still in the thick of it, and I’m not entirely sure how it will all end. I could be out of this apartment next month. Or maybe a miracle will happen, and my landlord will decide she can tolerate one large dog. Maybe I’ll land a great job and find a place that suits us both perfectly. Or maybe I’ll be faced with some tough decisions I can’t even foresee yet.
But for the first time in a long while, I’m not paralyzed by the uncertainty. I look at my dog—who was once labeled as “taking up too much space”—and realize that sometimes, the biggest hearts do take up the most room. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe we need to be willing to expand our lives and make space for the things that truly matter, even when it’s inconvenient or scary.
I’m holding onto that thought as I go into the next chapter of this journey.
Will it be easy? Probably not.
Will it be worth it? I think so.
Because at the end of the day, I’d rather share my limited space with a dog who has an unlimited capacity for love, than have a huge, empty life with no one to fill it.
That’s all I can really say for now. Things are looking a bit brighter, but there’s no neat bow to tie on this story just yet. I’ll keep fighting to keep him with me, and he’ll keep fighting to remind me that love—no matter how big or small—deserves a place to call home.
And if anyone out there is struggling with a similar situation—maybe it’s a pet, or a person, or a dream that feels like it’s “too big”—just remember: If you can find it in your heart to make room, you might be surprised by how much joy and purpose it brings.
For now, that’s all I’ve got.
Wish me luck. And to anyone who’s felt the heartbreak of being told they “take up too much space,” know that you deserve a spot in this world, too.