Rock bottom isn’t a place—it’s a feeling. For me, it was realizing Bixby, my scruffy mutt, was the only being who still knew my name. We lived through eviction, nights so cold my fingers turned blue, and shelters that said, “No pets allowed.” But he stayed. Every single day.
A stranger once threw us a biscuit from their car. I divided it carefully, but Bixby pushed his half back to me. That small act of sacrifice wrecked me.
I never asked for money. Just held a sign, hoping for eye contact. Then, a nurse in wrinkled scrubs stopped. “We’ve been trying to find you,” she said, showing a photo I didn’t remember taking. There was a room—with a “Dogs Welcome” policy.
It sounded too good to be true.
Five days later, Bixby was snoring on a donated dog bed. I wore socks without holes. When my sister called, she offered me a job at her bookstore. I accepted—not for myself, but for the creature who’d loved me when I couldn’t love myself.
What I know now: The hardest part of homelessness isn’t the lack of shelter. It’s the lack of witnesses. But if someone—human or animal—stands by you in the darkness, that’s where hope begins.
