People often think hitting rock bottom means losing your home, job, or family.
But for me, it was the moment I realized I hadn’t heard my name spoken in two weeks. Not once.
Except by Bixby—my dog.
Not in words, of course. But in the way he looked at me every day, as if I still mattered, as if I was still his person, no matter what had happened.
We’ve faced it all—eviction, shelters rejecting us because of “no pets,” nights in alleys with just a tarp and each other. He never ran. Never stopped wagging his crooked tail, even when I returned with only half a sandwich.
