When my son called me about Hunter, my heart broke. A young couple had brought this gorgeous 3-year-old German Shepherd to the shelter, asking to have him euthanized because they were moving and couldn’t “handle a big dog anymore.” A dog they’d raised since he was a puppy — just tossed aside like he didn’t matter.
The shelter refused, of course, and kept him, but when I heard the story, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I told my son I wanted to adopt Hunter, but he hesitated. “Mom, he’s a big dog — what if it’s too much for you?” he said. But I’ve had big dogs before, and I know how to handle them. Besides, when I met Hunter, I saw right away that he’s a gentle, obedient soul.
I brought him home that day. Now, Hunter follows me everywhere, curls up by my feet, and watches over me like he knows I saved him. It’s hard to imagine anyone seeing him as a burden. He’s my family now, and I’ll never let him go.
At first, I worried about the adjustment. Would he trust me? Would he miss his old owners? But Hunter settled in quickly. He explored the house, sniffing every corner, then sat beside me as if he’d always been there. The first night, I expected him to be restless, but he simply lay down near my bed and let out a deep sigh, as if he finally felt safe.
Every morning, we take a walk together. Hunter walks right beside me, never pulling, never running ahead. Sometimes, I talk to him about my day, and I swear he listens. He tilts his head, his big brown eyes watching me as if he understands every word.
One afternoon, I was gardening in the backyard when I lost my balance and fell. I wasn’t hurt, but before I could even push myself up, Hunter was at my side, nudging me gently with his nose, his eyes filled with concern. It was in that moment I realized something: Hunter wasn’t just my dog. He was my protector.
People say I’m too old to have a big dog, but I think it’s the other way around. Maybe Hunter needed me just as much as I needed him. I live alone, and my days were quiet before he came. Now, there’s life in my house again. There’s the sound of paws padding across the floor, the wagging of a tail when I walk into a room, the warmth of a loyal friend who never leaves my side.
One day, I took Hunter to the vet for a check-up. The vet looked at him, then at me, and said, “He looks happy. Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.” I smiled because I knew it was true. Hunter wasn’t just surviving—he was thriving.
I often think about the couple who wanted to put him down. I wonder if they ever feel guilty. If they ever miss him. If they ever regret giving up a dog who would have loved them forever. But then I push those thoughts away. Because Hunter isn’t their dog anymore. He’s mine. And he will be, for the rest of his life.
Some people believe that when you rescue an animal, you’re saving them. But I think, sometimes, they save you too.
What do you think—who really rescues who?
