It was the shelter. They’d heard.
Word gets around fast when you’re the lady who “rehomed the biter.” They didn’t blame me. Not directly. But the volunteer hours I’d signed up for that week? Canceled. The towels I’d washed? Not needed anymore. One woman—Nancy, I think—left a voicemail that said maybe I wasn’t cut out for this kind of work.
I sat on the kitchen floor that night with my head in my hands and asked a question I hadn’t asked in years.
“What now?”
The silence in the house was different without Bear. He snored, y’see. A slow, rattling snore that made the rooms feel lived in. Without him, the air felt stale, like something had stopped breathing.
I checked the clock every hour for three nights straight. I kept picturing him in a cage, confused, old bones pressing against concrete, wondering if I’d given up on him like the others.
On the fourth night, I drove to the pound.
They let me sit with him for fifteen minutes behind a chain-link door. He wagged once. Just once. And rested his head against the gate. I cried again, but quieter this time—like I didn’t want the other dogs to hear.
The officer told me the mailman hadn’t pressed charges. Said he’d seen the “beware of dog” sign and felt partly responsible. But they still had to follow the ten-day rule. Just to be safe.
And just like that, I knew something for certain: Bear would never go back to the shelter again. Not if I had breath in my lungs and gas in the tank.
I started calling lawyers. I read ordinances. I made notes with sticky tabs and highlighters like I was prepping for a courtroom drama on TV.
I fought for Bear.
I fought in a way I hadn’t fought for myself in years.
On day eleven, they called.
“You can come get him.”
I dropped the phone. Didn’t even grab a coat. Just keys and sneakers and a leash that still smelled like his fur.
He limped out of that gray building like a soldier returning from a long, lonely war.
When we got home, I made him eggs. Real ones, with a dash of cheddar and a pinch of bacon fat. He didn’t eat them right away. Just stared at me for a long time like he was memorizing my face.
Then he laid his chin on my foot and fell asleep.
Right there, in the middle of the kitchen.
The next day, I walked into the shelter. No appointment. No apology.
I told them I wouldn’t be volunteering anymore.
Not because of the gossip. Not even because of the judgment.
But because I wanted to start something of my own.
Something for the old ones.
The ones with cloudy eyes and worn-down hips. The ones no one takes home because their time is short and their meds are long. The ones who’ve been loyal to a world that forgets them too quickly.
I didn’t know how yet. But I had time. And I had fight.
Bear had reminded me.
That was the last day I felt invisible.
