He was quiet on the way home: six hours of winding through back Smoky Mountains roads to avoid traffic on the Interstate. I didn’t know how he would handle the drive—our tendencies were foreign to each other then. I stashed cozy blankets and cushions in the backseat to make a makeshift bed for him, hoping he didn’t get carsick and not having a clue what I would do if he did.

We made it safely to Nashville, exhausted and nervous about how setting in would go. He hopped out of the car, and I carried his one fabric bin of possessions up to my apartment. This and a manila folder holding his health records were all he had left of his previous home.

My intention wasn’t to keep him at first, just to rehome him. He had a few known behavioral issues when I first met him—anxiety, for sure, and a positively cranky attitude when he didn’t get his way. Coupled with food aggression, he was unpredictable. And he was scared, I could tell.

I contacted anyone I knew in Nashville who may be looking, and even had a few people come to meet him. There was a sweet couple who I could tell fell in love with him immediately, but they had small grandchildren who were over often. This made me nervous considering his aforementioned attitude issues. He doesn’t look menacing at first glance, but the second you see unprompted anger in his eyes, you can’t help but wonder what he’s capable of.

I told the couple I’d be in touch and then sat on the floor with him, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. It had only been a week or so since our trek across the country together, but something in me was screaming don’t let him go. I’d be signing up for so much uncertainty—uncertainty I hadn’t planned ahead for in the slightest.

I wasn’t sure I was ready, but maybe you never are? All I knew for sure: I couldn’t let him go. I told the couple I was so sorry, but I’d decided to keep Sam the Dog.

All my days since have revolved around walks, the rain, and his two regimented meal times. There are at least thirteen tennis balls strewn around my apartment, and possibly even more rolled under the couch and TV stand. He somehow takes up all the space in the bed (even though he was not originally allowed to sleep there), and the couch is strictly his domain. Every time I make waffles, he gets his own.

I’ve learned his growls are communicative, and that time—paired with a consistent routine and a stable home—would heal a lot of his trauma. He is still moody at times (who isn’t?), but I wouldn’t trade his appreciative snuggles and big brown eyes for anything. He is the most distinguished gentleman, a professional at fetch, and I’m so grateful he’s mine.

Olivia Harre

Olivia graduated from Calvin in May 2018 with a double major in business and writing. She now works as an editor in Nashville, Tennessee and is eating her way through the restaurants of her new town. She enjoys weekend trips with friends, petting other people’s dogs, and drinking coffee like a Gilmore Girl.