It was a cold and rainy evening when I first saw him.
I had just stepped off the bus after a long day at work, my umbrella barely shielding me from the downpour. As I turned into my street, I noticed a thin, muddy dog crouched under a bench near the sidewalk. His eyes met mine—cautious, but curious. He didn’t bark or growl. Just watched.
I slowed down, unsure whether to approach. I had never owned a dog before. But something about him—those eyes—stopped me in my tracks.
I tore a piece off the sandwich in my bag and tossed it gently his way. He hesitated for a moment, then darted forward to grab it, tail flicking slightly.
That was it. I went home, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
The next morning, I left a towel and a small container of food near that same bench. He was gone, but the food was eaten. Every day for the next week, I left something. Sometimes I caught a glimpse of him, and sometimes I didn’t.
And then, one day, he just stopped showing up.
I was heartbroken. I thought I had scared him off or that maybe he’d been picked up by someone else—or worse, hurt.
Weeks passed.
Then one Sunday morning, I opened my front door to get the newspaper—and there he was.
Sitting on the doormat, tail wagging slowly, eyes hopeful.
I was in shock. He had found me. How he tracked me down, I’ll never know. But there was no hesitation in my heart. I opened the door wide, and he walked in—wet, skinny, and absolutely perfect.
We named him Max. A vet visit, a warm bath, and a lot of patience later, he became part of our home. He’s still nervous around strangers, and he always keeps an eye on the door, as if waiting for something. But with us—he’s calm, goofy, and full of love.
Max wasn’t the dog I went looking for. He was the dog who found me. The one who came back because he chose me to be his human.
