People think hitting bottom means losing your home.
Or your job.
Or your family.
For me, it was something quieter: realizing no one had said my name in over two weeks.
Not once.
No one but him—my dog, Bixby.
Not in words, of course.
But every morning, he looked at me like I still mattered.
Like I was still his person. Always.
We’ve been through everything—eviction, shelters turning us away because of their “no pets” policy, nights huddled under tarps in back alleys.
But Bixby never left.
He never stopped wagging that crooked little tail when I showed up, even if all I had was half a sandwich.
Once, after two days without food, someone tossed a sausage biscuit our way from a passing car.
I broke it in half, but Bixby refused his piece.
Just nudged it toward me with his nose.
And stared at me like, “You go ahead. I’ll be fine.”
That moment broke me wide open.
I started writing on a sign—not to ask for money, just to share a little of our story.
Because people walk by and see the dirt, the beard, the tattered hoodie.
But they don’t see him.
They don’t see what he’s done for me.
Then last week, as I was packing up to move again, a woman in scrubs stopped and looked at us.
She looked at Bixby, then at me, and said five words I hadn’t imagined in a long time:
“We’ve been looking for you.”
I thought she had the wrong guy—until she pulled out a photo: me and Bixby, snapped from afar.
A social worker had taken it weeks ago and shared it with a local outreach program that partners with pet-friendly housing and vet clinics.
“I’m Jen,” she said. “We’ve got a room. You can bring your dog. Are you interested?”
I didn’t answer right away.
I couldn’t.
Dog-friendly?
A bed—with Bixby?
After so many “no’s,” I’d forgotten what “yes” felt like.
She must’ve seen the disbelief in my face.
She knelt down, scratched Bixby behind the ears, and said,
“You kept him warm. Now let us do that for you.”
That was five days ago.
Now we’re in a small room at a transitional home. It’s nothing fancy—a bed, a tiny fridge, a shared bathroom.
But it’s warm.
It’s safe.
And it’s ours.
They bathed Bixby our first night. Gave him a checkup. Even handed him a new squeaky toy, which he proudly buried under the pillow like it was pure gold.
They fed me, gave me clean clothes, and handed me a phone so I could call my sister.
First time we’ve spoken in over a year.
Yesterday, Jen stopped by with a job application—part-time warehouse work, no experience needed, paid weekly.
She said the position’s mine if I want it.
And I do.