I was tagged in a post late one night. The message was simple: There’s a dog lying by the highway. He’s weak. He won’t move.
At 10:45 p.m., I grabbed my keys and drove across the city. I didn’t know what I would find. I only knew that time was running out.
When I arrived, my heart broke.
There he was—curled tightly in the grass, nothing but skin and bones, clinging desperately to life. Just a few feet away lay his companion, already gone, struck by a car. The grief of that image is something I’ll never forget.
The surviving dog was so weak he couldn’t even stand. His body had already given up. But when I knelt beside him, he wagged his tail.
That tiny movement shattered me. It was his plea, his last fragile spark of hope. I whispered to him, “You’re safe now.”
I didn’t know his story, but I knew this: he had lost everything that mattered. And yet, he still wanted to believe in people.
I scooped him up carefully and drove him home.
His body was crawling with fleas, his skin raw from scratching. That night, I spent hours bathing him. I scrubbed every inch of his fragile frame, rinsing away dirt, parasites, and suffering. With each rinse, I felt the weight of neglect wash away.
When I finally made him a warm bed, he circled once, then collapsed onto the blanket. And there, he slept. For the first time in who knows how long, he slept peacefully. I sat beside him, watching his chest rise and fall, and I knew he finally felt safe.
The next morning, I brought him food. He ate slowly, cautiously, each bite a survival mechanism rather than satisfaction. It was as if he had forgotten what it meant to feel full. Watching him, I realized just how much he had endured simply to stay alive.
We went straight to the vet. They ran tests, bloodwork, viral panels—everything. The results came back better than I dared hope. Malnourished, yes. Weak, yes. But otherwise healthy. He didn’t carry the diseases we feared. All he needed was food, love, and time.
The introduction to my pack was gentle. He stood back, body low, tail twitching nervously. He wanted to belong, but fear held him frozen. My dogs sensed it, approaching carefully, giving him space.
And then, the moment of transformation: he sniffed noses with one of them, lifted his tail, and bounced playfully. Just like that, he was part of the group.
The change was magical. From hopeless and frail to joyful and alive—it was like watching a light switch on inside him.
Day after day, more of his personality emerged. He explored the house. He claimed favorite spots on the couch. Sometimes he curled up against me, sometimes he darted after toys with the energy of a puppy.
His eyes, once dull and clouded with sorrow, began to sparkle with life. With mischief. With joy.
Weeks passed, and no one came forward to claim him. We searched, posted, called shelters. Silence. By then, it didn’t matter. He had already chosen us.
We named him Titus, though soon enough, “Big Head” became his affectionate nickname.
Watching him run free in the yard, strong and alive, I knew he was exactly where he was meant to be.
One year later, Titus—our Big Head—is home for good. He is silly, playful, mischievous at times, but always full of love.
He went from lying helpless beside a highway, waiting for death, to being surrounded by family, safety, and joy.
Every mile I drove that night, every hour I spent nursing him, every tear I shed—it was worth it. Because he was worth it. He always was.
And this… this is why we rescue.
This is why we exhaust ourselves beyond words.
This is why we clean kennels until our backs ache.
This is why we spend every spare dollar on vet bills.
This is why we stay up through the night, bottle-feeding, medicating, comforting.
Because no matter how much we give, it will never compare to what they give us in return: unconditional love, boundless loyalty, and the reminder that every life matters.
Titus is living proof.
From a highway ditch to a home filled with love—he is our why.
