I adopted him not long ago.
He still doesn’t really know me. Not fully. We’re still strangers learning each other’s rhythms—how to move gently, how to speak softly, how to simply be around one another without fear. But today, something changed.
We were in the car, driving quietly. No destination urgent, just the kind of drive you take when the world feels too loud and a little peace lives behind the wheel. And then, I looked over—and saw this.
He had fallen asleep.
Not just dozing. Not just resting his eyes. He was deep into sleep—unbothered, unafraid. His head gently laid across the gear shift, like it was the softest pillow in the world. His paw draped over the console, trusting, unguarded. Peaceful.
And in that moment, I knew what it meant.
This wasn’t just about a nap. This was about safety. About surrender. About healing.
He is tired. Tired of fear. Tired of cages. Tired of being passed over. Tired of holding his breath and bracing for the next loud noise, the next harsh hand, the next goodbye.
But now… for the first time in what might be years, he sleeps without worry. No flinching. No checking. Just… rest.
Because he trusts me.
And there is nothing more beautiful—nothing more sacred—than when a broken soul chooses to rest beside you. When they decide, quietly and without ceremony, that they are safe now. That you are home.
And I promise him, with everything I am:
He is safe.
He is wanted.
And he is mine.
Forever.
