06/07/2026
Last Sunday, May 3, 2026, I went to the shelter to donate some blankets and toys.
It was the first death anniversary of my dog—who had been part of my life for 14 beautiful years and quietly said goodbye on May 3, 2025.
I wasn’t there to adopt.
I went only to donate.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered my landlord once saying,
“If you want, you can keep one dog.”
Still, I had no intention of even looking.
At the front desk, I noticed a volunteer with red, tired eyes.
I asked her what was wrong.
She spoke softly and said,
“We’re completely full. We have to make space by noon tomorrow. There are two in the back…”
She couldn’t finish the sentence.
I should have walked away.
But I didn’t.
I followed her to the back.
Inside one kennel were two Dachshund dogs—small, long-bodied, with sleek coats and those signature short legs. Their sausage-shaped bodies looked even tinier as they sat pressed close together, quietly leaning on each other for comfort. Their big, dark, soulful eyes looked up with a mix of worry and hope.
They weren’t just sharing space.
They were sharing loyalty.
The volunteer said,
“People think Dachshunds are just cute lap dogs, but these two are a bonded pair. They’ve been together since they were puppies. Four weeks here… and tomorrow was their last day.”
My landlord said one dog.
But my heart knew—
these two would feel incomplete if separated.
They had grown up side by side,
found safety in each other’s warmth,
and I couldn’t leave them behind.
I called my landlord from the parking lot—crying, pleading, promising an extra deposit.
She finally said yes.
Welcome home, Bobby and Bunny.
You were on the noon list,
but you’ll never know what that means.
All you’ll ever know is this—
You are safe now.
And you are together.
