I didn’t intend to stop that day. My back seat was filled with groceries, my phone was dying, and I was already late. But then I saw him—curled up by the curb like a forgotten piece of life. Ribs sticking out, one ear torn and legs trembling while attempting to stand.
He never flinched when I approached. He just looked up at me with eyes that seemed to say, I know you won’t hurt me. And when I crouched down he limped into my lap like we had always meant to do.
That was two weeks ago. I named him Mello, though he’s definitely not mellow. He follows me from room to room, shadowing every step. Whether it’s while I’m cooking, working, or brushing my teeth, Mello firmly believes that my lap is the only proper place for him. His body is still recovering. Shockingly, many days he can barely get to his feet, but the need to be close seems stronger than the memory of pain.
The first vet visit was tough. Mange. A lung infection. Two cracked ribs. And some oddity on an x-ray. They gave me drug prescriptions, estimates to fix him, and lots of caveats. I was all in immediately—there was never any question. I was not leaving Mello behind.
I now sleep on the couch—it’s lower to the ground and easier for Mello to navigate. If I’m not in sight, he whines. I’ve hardly had a full night sleep in the past few weeks but is that even a thing anymore? His soft, steady breathing next to me is peace in my life.
At his follow-up, the vet paused during the scan—Mid-scan, she said, “He’s chipped.” “Adopted two years past.” My heart sank. Did they abandon him or did they just lose him?
The next day, I called the number. A lady named Raya answered. When I explained our interaction, I could hear her voice cracking “We lost him over a year ago,” she said. They had rescued him from horrible circumstances when he was just a puppy, and they named him Rusty. They had adopted Rusty when they were in a bad position, but things got tougher when they had to move in with a relative who would not allow any pets and were forced to surrender him. One night while it was raining pretty hard, he ran away and they lost him. “We have never stopped thinking about him,” she said. “Is he alright?”
I told her what was true, he was getting better slowly. She said they still could not take him back, but she was very happy he now has a person. I hung up with mixed feelings, I’m relieved but I’m sad. Mello was my dog now, but someone else loved him first.
Over the next week, something was different. Mello was walking better, and his eyes were brighter. I began introducing him to the idea of walks. He was still wobbly like a baby deer, but he sniffed every tree and post like he never sniffed a tree or post before. Then one day a little boy without his parental control took off after a soccer ball across the street. Mello quietly trotted up to the boy and gently licked his hand. The little boy laughed and I felt a flood of pride. Absolutely nothing was going to bring this dog’s spirit down.
That night, Mello fell asleep across my legs with his head on my belly, snoring loudly. The apartment felt warmer, more alive. Scroll through my phone at night, taking chances to fill the quiet. I had him now, and I didn’t need anything else.
Raya called again just to check in. Her voice was brighter. I told her how well he was progressing, and I sent her pictures of his shiny coat, and his belly up naps, and the mischief in his eyes. “He seems so happy,” she said to me. “You saved him.”
But not just me. He saved me too.
Later, the vet explained the weird shadow on the X-ray—a pellet from an air rifle lodged in his upper chest area, near his lung. Someone shot him. It broke my heart. But Mello? He trusted. He loved. He still curled up in my lap like the world had never been cruel.
Money became tight. I stopped indulging in extras—no more takeout coffee, and no more shopping because it was on sale. Every restored dollar went towards his care. And strangely, it was one of the first things I felt proud to spend my money on in years.
One day, a package came in the mail. Inside was a big plush sun toy, and a handwritten note: Thank you so much for giving Rusty—Mello—a second chance. You have no idea what that meant to us. Love, Raya. For hours, Mello squeaked that toy, eyes bright, like it was made of gold.
Weeks passed. He was limp-less, his fur thick and soft. And one day, Raya message me again—they finally moved into a pet-friendly apartment, and although they didn’t ask if they could take him back, they just wanted to see him.
They came over on a quiet Saturday. The moment they walked in, Mello barreled over, wagging his tail like a maniac. There were tears and laughter and soft nuzzles. He recognized them. After the greetings though, he settled right next to my leg and stayed there.
That was his way of saying, They are part of my past. But you are my home now.
We had fun for hours talking and watching Mello frolic with his sun toy. I offered them to take him for the weekend, but they politely declined.
“He belongs with you,” Raya said, albeit her eyes were glistening. “We just needed to see he was loved.”
When they left, something eased in myself. There was healing in their visit—not just for them, not just for Mello—but for me too. Proof that love can withstand loss, and sometimes, the right thing to do is to let go of what was, in order to embrace what is.
This morning, Mello is happy, healthy, and whole. He carries his history with him, but it does not define him. And maybe it doesn’t define me either.
I look at Mello sprawled in the sunlight, thumping tail at the sound of his name. I remember the broken stray sitting beside the curb—the broken picture that climbed into my lap like he had always belonged there. And I know, we found each other, when it needed it most.
Sometimes, rescuing something broken helps you heal parts of yourself that you didn’t even realize needed saving. Sometimes, love shows up with mange and broken ribs and a painful history. And sometimes, rescuing a dog—you rescue yourself.
