He Doesn’t Know He’s Safe Yet — But One Day, He Will

When I first brought him home, I expected nervousness, maybe hesitation — but I wasn’t prepared for the complete emptiness in his eyes. He walked inside without resistance, climbed quietly onto the couch, and curled up into himself as if trying to vanish into the fabric. His body was still, his breathing shallow, and his gaze vacant — not the kind of tiredness that follows a long journey, but the kind that comes from years of carrying sorrow too heavy to speak aloud.

He didn’t wag his tail. He didn’t sniff the room like most dogs do when they enter a new space. He didn’t seek affection or comfort. He simply sat there, small and silent, wrapped in a sadness that felt far too big for such a fragile frame. It wasn’t fear in his eyes — it was loss. It was survival. It was the look of someone who had been let down more times than they could count.

I don’t know what he went through before he found his way here. Maybe he lived on the streets, scavenging for scraps and sleeping through storms. Maybe someone once owned him but never loved him. Maybe he learned the hard way that trust could be dangerous, that kindness didn’t last, and that love, when it came, was always followed by pain.

And so now, even though he’s safe, he doesn’t know it. Even though he’s warm, fed, and protected, his heart is still curled up like his body — unsure whether this peace is real or just another brief pause before more heartache. He flinches at sudden sounds. He avoids my gaze. He moves slowly, not out of fatigue, but out of fear that taking up space might be a mistake.

But he doesn’t have to do anything right now. He doesn’t have to play, or perform, or heal on anyone’s schedule. I don’t need him to trust me overnight. I just need him to breathe. To know that, finally, there is no threat lurking. No raised voices. No locked gates. No more nights spent alone in the cold. Just quiet. Just love. Just time.

I will wait for him. For the moment his eyes soften. For the day he uncurls and stretches without hesitation. For that first tiny wag of his tail that tells me he’s starting to believe in something better. And when that day comes — whether it’s tomorrow or months from now — I’ll be here, just like I was the first day. Ready. Patient. Constant.

Because healing doesn’t happen quickly, and trust isn’t owed — it’s earned, gently, over time. And no matter how long it takes, I’ll show him what forever looks like. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s home. He’s loved. And he will never be abandoned again.