The Dog Who Saved Me
When I first adopted Luna, she was just my friend April’s dog. April had raised her from a puppy, but when she moved in with her boyfriend, things changed. He didn’t want pets in the house, and she had to make a choice. She told me that giving up Luna was painful, but it was for the best.
I remember the day she dropped Luna off at my apartment. April handed me the leash with tears in her eyes but reassured me that this was the right decision. She signed over all rights, saying she trusted me to give Luna the life she deserved. I didn’t know at the time that this beautiful dog would become my world. I didn’t just take her in; I made her my family.
Luna came into my life at a time when I needed her the most. I had been struggling with depression, feeling lost and isolated. My days were dull, a monotonous cycle of work and sleep, but she changed everything. Her boundless energy, the way she curled up beside me at night, and her unconditional love made each day worth living. I no longer felt alone. Luna saved me in ways I never thought possible.
Over the months, we became inseparable. We had morning routines, weekend adventures at the park, and lazy afternoons curled up on the couch. I watched her transform from a confused, rehomed dog into a confident, happy companion. She loved me as fiercely as I loved her. I had no doubts that I was her person now.
Then, out of nowhere, April texted me one evening.
“Hey, so I was thinking… I’d like to have Luna back. My boyfriend is okay with pets now, and I really miss her.”
I stared at my phone in disbelief. It had been over a year. Luna had a new home, a new life. She wasn’t April’s dog anymore—she was mine.
I carefully composed my response. “April, I love Luna with all my heart. She’s happy here, and I can’t just uproot her life. She’s settled and attached to me now.”
The reply came almost immediately. “But she’s MY dog.”
I reminded her that she had willingly given Luna up, that I had taken on the responsibility, financially and emotionally, for more than a year. April didn’t seem to care. Her messages turned cold, then angry.
“You stole my dog.”
I couldn’t believe what I was reading. Stole? April had given Luna to me freely, even thanking me for taking care of her. Now, she was accusing me of theft?
When I refused again, she escalated. First, it was a barrage of texts, filled with accusations and guilt-tripping. Then, she started messaging mutual friends, twisting the story to paint me as the villain. Soon after, my relatives started receiving messages from her too. She told them I had taken Luna against her will, refusing to return “her beloved pet” even though she was now in a position to care for her.
The emotional toll was immense. I was heartbroken that someone I once called a friend would go to such lengths. I tried to reason with her, explaining that Luna was no longer just a pet to me—she was family. But April didn’t care. She wanted what she had given up, and nothing else mattered.
Some friends told me to just give Luna back to avoid the drama. Others supported me, knowing how deeply I loved her. But no matter what anyone said, I knew one thing: I couldn’t give Luna away. She was mine now. She was my baby.
April’s relentless campaign continued for weeks. I blocked her number, but she found other ways to reach me. At one point, she even showed up at my apartment, demanding to take Luna. I refused to open the door. That night, I held Luna close, feeling both sadness and anger. How could someone give up their dog and then demand them back like a borrowed item? Luna wasn’t an object. She was a living being who had found her home—with me.
One day, I took Luna on a long walk, trying to clear my mind. As I watched her happily sniff the grass and wag her tail, I knew I had made the right choice. April might never forgive me, and our friendship might be beyond repair, but Luna’s happiness mattered more. She was safe, she was loved, and she was home.
And I wasn’t letting her go.
