In Loneliness and Winter, A Dog Became My Reason to Wake Up

He was just a stray when I found him — thin, dirty, forgotten by the world. I reached out and gently touched his head. He didn’t run. He looked at me and followed.

That day, without a single word, we chose each other.

I named him Fido. He made no demands, never questioned my life or my silence. At night, he curled at my feet. In the morning, he wagged his tail as if to say, “We’ve got another day — let’s live it.”

I talk to him sometimes. About my pension, about how tired I feel, about memories no one else remembers. He doesn’t speak, but he listens. And when I finish, he licks my hand — a small, wordless answer full of comfort.

“Fido,” I said one evening, “tomorrow we won’t have much to eat. My retirement’s run out. We’ll have to wait again.”

But Fido didn’t seem worried. He wagged his tail anyway.

The next morning, we walked together to the pension office. I clutched the worn paperwork in my hands. Around me, other retirees waited, quiet and tired. Fido stood beside me, tail swaying with the patience of a friend who never leaves your side.

He knew. Somehow, he always knew. That today there would be food — maybe even a little more than usual.

Now it’s winter. My house is cold. The heater stopped long ago, but Fido lies close, warming me with his body and his presence. In spring, we sit together in the sun. He leans his head on my knee. I close my eyes.

And from the quiet of my soul, a prayer rises:
“Thank you, Lord, for having created the dog.”

He came to me with nothing.
But gave me everything.