When people first saw her, they didn’t see the grace in the way she sat — only the way her legs crossed awkwardly, the way her spine didn’t quite line up.
They saw what was missing.
What was crooked.
What was wrong.

Born with a twisted frame and uneven gait, she was passed from one shelter to another. Adoption events came and went, but no one ever stopped long enough to meet the soul behind the body.

“She’ll be too much work.”
“She won’t live long.”
“She’s not… perfect.”

But they were wrong.

Because the day I walked into that shelter, something happened.
She didn’t run up to the bars or bark for attention.
She just sat — calm, composed, paws crossed like royalty — and looked at me like she already knew me.

And somehow, I knew her too.

She came home with me that night.
There were no grand plans, no special needs training courses, no expectations.
Just two quiet hearts, tired of being misunderstood.

She never moved fast, but she was always the first to greet me when I came home.
She couldn’t jump, but she always found a way to rest her head on my lap when I needed it most.
She didn’t chase sticks — but she chased away loneliness.

She lived.

Not just existed — but lived.
Long enough to see me break after losing someone I loved.
Long enough to keep my feet warm every winter.
Long enough to prove that broken bodies are more than enough to hold whole, unbreakable hearts.

People say I rescued her.
But if you ask me?

She was never the one who needed saving.

I was.