I wanted a poodle, something elegant. Instead, my husband and son brought home Daisy, a scruffy rescue mutt—too big, too awkward, far from cute. My son, eyes glowing, declared, “She picked me.” I cringed, imagining the embarrassment of walking this shaggy dog. She wasn’t the refined pet I’d envisioned.
That night, watching my ten-year-old tuck Daisy into a blanket, whispering she was safe, I decided to return her. But as I grabbed the leash, his voice stopped me: “You were going to take her.” Tears in his eyes, he hugged Daisy, saying, “I love her.” His words broke me. I hadn’t seen what he did—a dog who needed him, who saved something in him.
I knelt beside them. “She can stay.” Three months later, I walk Daisy proudly. When people ask her breed, I say, “She’s a rescue.” I’ve never been prouder.
