People think you hit rock bottom when you lose your house.
Or your job.
Or your family.
But for me, it was when I realized I hadn’t heard my own name spoken in two weeks. Not once.
Except by him—my dog, Bixby.
Well, not in words, obviously.
But in the way he looked at me every morning like I still mattered.
Like I was still his person, no matter what.
We’ve been through it all—eviction, shelters turning us away because of “no pets,”
nights curled up in alleys with just a tarp and each other. He never bolted.
Never stopped wagging that little crooked tail when I came back with even half a sandwich.
One time, I hadn’t eaten in two days. Someone tossed us a sausage biscuit from a car window.
I split it right down the middle, but Bixby wouldn’t touch his half.
Just pushed it toward me with his nose.
Sat there staring like, “I can wait. You eat.”
That broke me.
I started writing the sign not to beg, but just to explain. Because people don’t always get it.
They see the dirt, the beard, the worn-out hoodie.
But they don’t see him. Or what he’s done for me.
And then last week—just as I was packing up to move spots—this woman in scrubs stopped in front of us.
She looked at Bixby, then at me, and said five words that didn’t feel real at first:
“We’ve been looking for you.”
