But I stayed right there, hands gripping the fence, while he licked my fingers — like he forgave me without even knowing what I’d done.

A volunteer came over and asked if I was okay.

I told her no. Nothing had been okay since I gave him up. Nothing had been okay since I got out.

They didn’t let me take him that day. They talked about procedures, forms, a waiting period, proof of housing.

I showed them a picture of my little studio apartment, just above a garage. Simple, but clean. With a bed, a door, and two bowls already set out in the corner.

They told me to come back the next day.

I came back every day for a week.

I brought him treats, chatted with the staff, helped walk the other dogs. Anything to be near him without making it too obvious.

On the fifth day, they called me in.

They agreed to the adoption, on one condition: that I take a few community classes on animal care.

I agreed without hesitation.

I sat in a room with tired moms, shy teenagers, and an old grump complaining about “new-age dog trends.”
We talked about hygiene, behavior, trauma. I took notes on everything.

And through it all, I could only think about one thing: the way Diego gently wagged his tail, like he wanted to believe he had the right to be happy again.

That’s how I felt too.

And the day I walked out of that shelter with him by my side, leash in hand, papers in my pocket… I realized I hadn’t just gotten a dog back.

I had found a part of myself again.