01/09/2026
I went to a shelter planning to meet a dog and found him sitting quietly against the back wall.
A curly-coated Poodle, tucked into himself on the cold concrete, posture tight but composed. He wasnβt trembling. He wasnβt loud. He was watching. Thinking. His eyes were gentle and alert, the kind that feel like theyβre trying to understand you before trusting you.
When we made eye contact, he stood and walked over carefully. No rush. No noise. He placed a frayed tennis ball at my feet and looked up, waiting, like he was asking a question rather than making a demand.
I asked about him.
The staff paused.
βHeβs been returned twice,β they said.
βToo emotional. Too attached. Gets distressed when left alone.β
As they guided him back toward his kennel, he stopped. Sat down. Leaned his head against the bars and let out a small sound, soft and uncertain, like he already knew how this usually ends.
Something in me shifted.
βI want him,β I said.
The volunteer gave a tired smile.
βPoodles feel everything,β he said. βThey donβt forget being left behind.β
Bringing him home took patience.
He followed me closely, always checking where I was. If I left the room, he waited. If the house went quiet, he grew uneasy. He didnβt bark much. He just watched, listened, and worried in his own quiet way.
So I slowed down.
I gave him structure.
I gave him reassurance.
I gave him time.
Gradually, the worry softened. His need to watch turned into trust. The sensitivity became awareness instead of fear. His intelligence showed itself in small ways, learning routines, reading moods, settling in like he finally believed this place was real.
Now he curls up near my feet when I work. He waits by the door in the evening, calm and hopeful. Every morning, he greets me with bright eyes and a gentle tail wag, like heβs grateful all over again.
That tennis ball?
Still his favorite.
Every sunrise, we take it outside. Just the two of us. Running, playing, finding balance together.
His name is Br
