Three months.
That’s how long I kept searching. I taped flyers to every pole, flooded social media with his photo, posted desperate pleas on Craigslist. Night after night, I lay awake, straining to hear a bark that never came.
He panicked during a thunderstorm and slipped through the gate. By the time I noticed, he was already out of reach. Just… gone.
I started telling people I’d accepted it. That maybe a kind soul had taken him in. That he was somewhere safe, fed, warm.
But I hadn’t let go.
Every morning before work, I still called his name—just in case. Every night, I left the porch light on, hoping somehow he’d see it and find his way home.
Then yesterday, my phone rang.
Blocked number. I nearly ignored it.
But I answered.
A calm voice came through the line:
“Is this Mr. Braxton? We believe we’ve found your dog.”
My breath caught. My legs gave out. I must’ve asked, “Are you sure?” at least ten times.
They said he was discovered miles away, huddled behind a diner dumpster. He was thin. Shivering. But alive.
When I stepped into that shelter, it felt like time slowed to a crawl.
And when his eyes locked onto mine—really saw me—he let out that goofy half-chuff sound he always made when I came home late.
He barreled into my arms and collapsed there. Trembling. Heavy. Solid.
At first, I thought I was holding him to calm him down.
But then I felt something under his collar. Something small, wrapped into the leather.
I turned to the staff. “Who put this here?”
A young volunteer stepped forward, sleeves covering her hands.
“I think it was already there when he arrived,” she said. “We left it, just in case it meant something.”
I untied the small knot and carefully pulled out a folded, rain-stained scrap of paper.
It was a note.
In uneven handwriting, it read:
“Found him crying in the alley. Gave him chicken. He stayed with me for a week. I wanted to keep him, but I’m going to rehab. He deserves better.”
No name. No contact info. Just that.
I stood there, speechless. The room was quiet. And for the first time in months, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long while: a strange, aching mix of sorrow and gratitude.
Someone out there had cared for my dog when I couldn’t.
On the drive home, he curled up in the backseat like nothing had changed. Every so often, he’d glance at me as if to say, You’re really here.
I swung by the grocery store and grabbed two rotisserie chickens—his favorite.
We sat on the floor and shared dinner, just like old times.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about that note.
About the person who wrote it.
So the next day, I drove back to the diner where he was found. It was a…