After Greg and I found out we couldn’t have kids, the silence in our marriage became deafening. Every room felt emptier, every shared glance heavier. One evening, I took a deep breath and said, “Let’s get a dog. Something to love.”
Greg raised an eyebrow. “A dog? Fine. But not some yappy little thing.”
I smiled, sensing this was as close as we’d get to compromise these days.
At the shelter, I spotted her immediately—Maggie. She was curled up in a back corner, a frail, gray-faced senior dog, barely moving. Her tag read: 12 years old. Hospice adoption only.
She looked… defeated.
And yet, when I knelt down, her tail wagged just slightly. That tiny, trembling wag said more than words ever could: she had hope left, and somehow, I knew I could give it back to her.
Greg, however, couldn’t get past her appearance. “That dog was at death’s door,” he muttered, disbelief in his voice. “How is she alive? She can barely walk—this is ridiculous.”
“She had some health issues,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “The shelter listed her as hospice-only. But Sam and the clinic found otherwise. She has arthritis and a heart murmur, yes, but with the right care, medication, and therapy, she’s doing much better than anyone expected. She might not have decades ahead, but she’s got more life than we realized.”
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