Today I adopted your dog—the one you left at the shelter as if he were insignificant. Did you know he’s severely emaciated? That he trembles, hides in corners, barely eats, and avoids all eye contact? He seems as if he’s lost all trust in the world.
His fur was covered in fleas, his eyes blank. The shelter staff said you simply gave him away—without a final petting, without a word, without remorse. Why couldn’t he stay with you? Why was he suddenly too much for you?
He doesn’t play. He hardly sleeps. And when he does sleep, he twitches in his dreams—perhaps the memory of you still haunts him. But you know what? Now his new life begins.
My wife and I will take him in with patience, calm, and genuine affection. He’ll have what he never had with you: a safe home, a full bowl, warm blankets, and open arms. And at some point, when he can trust again, he’ll realize he’s arrived.
Today I adopted your dog. And I promise you one thing: He’ll never feel unwanted again.
