Many believe hitting rock bottom means losing your home, your job, or your family.
They’re mistaken.
For me, it was the moment I realized no one had called my name in two whole weeks. Not even once.
Except for one—Bixby, my dog.
He never spoke the words, obviously, but every morning he’d gaze at me with those large, patient eyes, his tail wagging slowly and steadily, like I still mattered. Like I was still his person.
We had already endured hell together—being evicted, shelters refusing us because of “no pets,” freezing nights huddled beneath an old tarp while the wind sliced through us.
And still, he never left my side. Never stopped pressing close against me in the cold, as if his presence alone could hold the world at bay.
Once, after going two days without food, someone tossed a sausage biscuit out of a car window. I broke it evenly in half,
but Bixby gently nudged his portion back toward me with his nose. His eyes said, “You first. I can wait.”
That moment shattered something inside me.
I began carrying a cardboard sign—not to plead, but to show people who we were. Because strangers only saw the dirt, the worn hoodie, the unshaven face.
They didn’t see him. They didn’t see how he kept me alive in more ways than one.
And then just last week—while I was getting ready to move to a new spot—a woman in scrubs stopped in front of us. She looked right at me, then at Bixby… and spoke five words that changed everything.
