The House Was Empty, But the Dog Was Still Waiting to Die

We went to see the house on a gray afternoon. The yard was quiet. Windows bare. No curtains. No signs of life.

Except him.

An old yellow Labrador stood near the fence. At least eleven. Maybe twelve. His food bowl was empty. His water bowl had been knocked over and dried in the dirt.

He didn’t bark when we walked in.

He wagged.

We poured water from our children’s bottles into his bowl. He followed us everywhere after that. Slow steps. Hopeful eyes.

When we went back inside to continue the visit, he started whining.

When we got into our car, he stood on his hind legs and barked over the fence like he understood what leaving meant.

We called the real estate agent.

“Pets aren’t allowed in their new home,” he said casually. “They left the dog.”

Left him.

My children barely slept that night.

We went back the next morning. The bowls were empty again.

He ate like he hadn’t eaten in days.

I called the agent and said I wouldn’t buy the house even if it was the last one on earth. But I would take the dog. And if they didn’t agree within 24 hours, I’d call the police.

They agreed.

At the vet we learned he was deaf. Severely malnourished. Sick.

We spent months rebuilding him. Money we hadn’t planned to spend. Time we didn’t question spending.

He lived with us for a year and a half.

He slept inside. He ate every day. He followed my kids from room to room like they were oxygen.

He made it to fourteen.

When it was time, he fought to stay. Even in that final room, he didn’t give up.

Neither did we.

This is him now.
Home.
On the couch.
Next to my youngest son.

If you can’t keep your pet, find them a home.

Don’t leave them waiting at a fence.