The shelter called it a “hospice adoption” – meaning no one expected the arthritic senior shepherd to live more than a few weeks. But when she rested her graying head in my lap, I knew I’d found what my empty house needed. My husband Greg called it “pathetic.” I called it love.
“You’re really picking that mutt over me?” Greg demanded as he packed his designer suits. I didn’t answer – just scratched behind Maggie’s ears as he slammed the door. The silence that followed was the most peaceful our home had known in years.
What happened next surprised everyone, especially the vet. Under patient care and homemade meals, Maggie’s cloudy eyes cleared. Her tail, once limp, began wagging at the sound of my voice. She became my shadow, following me from room to room as I rebuilt my life.
The look on Greg’s face when he saw us months later – Maggie healthy, me happy, and a new man holding my hand – was almost as sweet as the diamond now on my finger. Sometimes the things we rescue end up rescuing us right back.
