Most people think rock bottom is losing your job, your home, your family.
For me, it was realizing no one had said my name in two weeks—except for Bixby, my dog.
Not with words, but with that look. Like I still mattered.
We’d been through it all—eviction, shelters turning us away because of him, nights on the street wrapped in a tarp.
And still, Bixby stayed. Always wagging, always waiting.
Once, after two days with no food, someone tossed a sausage biscuit from a car. I split it in half.
Bixby nudged his piece toward me. Like, you need it more.
That broke me.
So I made a sign—not to beg, but to explain. Because no one saw him. No one saw what he meant.
Until last week.
A woman in scrubs stopped in front of us. Looked at Bixby, then me.
And said: “We’ve been looking for you.”
I thought she was mistaken. But she pulled out a photo—a blurry shot of us, sent by a social worker to a local outreach team.
“I’m Jen,” she said. “We have a room. Pet-friendly. Want it?”
I froze. After so many “no’s,” I didn’t know what a “yes” felt like.
Jen crouched and scratched Bixby’s ears.
“You kept him safe,” she said. “Let us do the same for you.”
That was five days ago.
Now we’ve got a room. Warm, safe, ours.
Bixby got a bath, a check-up, a toy.
I got a hot meal, clean clothes—and a phone to call my sister.
Yesterday, Jen offered me a job lead. Warehouse work. Weekly pay. It’s mine if I want it.
I do.
Not just for me—for us.
Because Bixby didn’t choose this life. He just never left.
I’ve learned something:
It’s not hunger or cold that breaks you—it’s being unseen.
But one loyal dog, and five simple words, changed everything.
“We’ve been looking for you.”
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