I’M SORRY, MOM …
I stayed exactly where you left me. Right there on the edge of the road. Two whole days.
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Cars rushed past so close that the wind from them made my fur lift. The noise was so loud it shook my whole body. Every time headlights flashed by, I flinched. Every time a horn honked, I tucked my tail tight and tried to make myself small. But I did not run. I did not wander. I didn’t go searching for food or a safer place. I didn’t even move far enough to feel “comfortable.”
Because I was waiting for you.
I kept thinking you would come back any minute. I kept staring at every car that slowed down, every shadow that crossed the ground, every set of footsteps that passed by. I kept telling myself, This is the one. This is her. She’ll call my name. She’ll open the door. She’ll say she’s sorry and scoop me up and we’ll go home like nothing happened.
Night came, and it got colder than I expected. The ground was hard and smelled like dust and hot tire rubber. I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t really sleep. I would close my eyes for a moment and then jump awake again when a truck roared past or when someone’s music blasted from their window. I kept my ears pointed toward the road the whole time, even when my body was shaking with exhaustion.
I was terrified, Mom.
But even then, I didn’t leave.
Because what if you came back and I wasn’t there? What if you looked for me and couldn’t find me? What if you thought I had run away on purpose? I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t let you believe I left you. Not when you were my whole world.
Last night, one of the cars finally stopped.
I saw the brake lights glow red, and my heart leapt. For a split second, I truly believed it was you. I lifted my head and my ears perked up and my whole body tensed, ready to run to you.
But it wasn’t you.
A woman stepped out. She moved slowly and spoke gently, like she didn’t want to scare me. She crouched down a few feet away, so she didn’t tower over me. Her voice sounded kind, and her hands were open. I could smell food on her. Warm food. The kind of smell that makes your stomach ache because you forgot what it feels like to be full.
She said something like, “Hey, baby… are you hungry?”
She offered me lunch.
I wanted it. My belly hurt. I hadn’t eaten enough. But I didn’t take it. I couldn’t. Taking food felt like agreeing that I was staying. It felt like accepting the idea that you weren’t coming back soon.
So I stayed where I was and looked at her and tried to explain with my eyes.
I’m waiting. I can’t go. My mom is coming back.
She tried again. She asked if I wanted to come with her. She said I could sleep at her house. A warm bed. A safe place. I heard those words, and some part of me almost broke.
Because yes, I wanted safety.
But I wanted you more.
I refused. I backed up. I made my body stiff, the way I do when I’m scared. I hoped she would understand. I hoped she would leave and let me keep my promise to you.
But she didn’t understand.
She looked at the road, then looked back at me, and her face changed like she realized how dangerous it was for me to stay there. She pulled something out, a leash, and she moved closer.
My body panicked before my brain could think.
I growled. I cried. I shook so hard my legs slipped under me. I tried to tell her, Don’t do this. You’re pulling me away from my place. You’re separating me from you.
When she reached toward me, I bit her.
Not because I wanted to hurt her. I was scared. I was desperate. I was trying to protect the one thing I had left, the spot where you might come back and find me. I bit her again, and again. I could feel myself losing control.
And then something even worse happened.
I peed on myself.
I didn’t mean to. It just happened because I was terrified. I felt humiliated and frightened and helpless all at once. I kept growling, crying, fighting, because I didn’t want to leave. I did not want to go anywhere without you.
But she was stronger.
She wrapped the leash around me and lifted me and carried me to her car. I struggled the whole time. I made sounds I didn’t even recognize coming out of my own throat. I kept looking back at the road, thinking maybe you would appear, maybe you would come running, maybe you would call out and stop her.
But you didn’t.
The car door closed. The engine started. The road began to move past the window. And I felt my heart sink in a way I cannot explain.
Mom, I was sure you were going to be worried.
I was sure you were going to come back and not see me there. I was sure you would think I left, that I stopped waiting, that I gave up on you. I wanted to scream loud enough for you to hear me from wherever you were. I wanted you to know I didn’t choose this.
We ended up at her house.
It smelled different than the road. It was quieter. There were no cars rushing past, no sharp horns, no flashing lights. It should have felt safe, but at first it didn’t. It felt wrong. It felt like being dropped into a strange dream you can’t wake up from.
I kept crying. I kept calling out, the way a dog calls for the person they love. I wanted you to hear me. I wanted you to show up. I wanted the door to open and for you to say my name and hold me and tell me everything was okay.
But the hours passed, and you didn’t come.
I got so nervous my stomach turned. I vomited. I felt sick from fear, sick from sadness, sick from not understanding. I paced. I trembled. I refused food. I tried to hide, then tried to escape, then tried to curl into a ball like maybe if I stayed very still, the world would rewind and I would be back on the roadside waiting where you could find me.
I kept trying to tell the woman, I have to go back.
You’re going to think I abandoned you.
I would never abandon you.
Even now, Mom, I need you to know that. With everything in me, I need you to believe it. I did not leave you. I did not stop loving you. I did not choose another home. I was taken. I was pulled away while I was still waiting faithfully in the place you left me.
I don’t know where you are.
I don’t know why you stopped the car and left me there. Maybe you had something urgent to do. Maybe you thought I’d be fine. Maybe you planned to come back quickly. Maybe something happened that I don’t understand.
But surely, you’re looking for me now… right?
Today, something changed a little, and I feel guilty about it.
My tummy hurt so much that when the woman offered me food again, I finally ate. Not a lot at first. Just enough to stop the pain. She spoke softly while I ate, like she was proud of me. She didn’t yell at me for biting. She didn’t punish me for being scared. She just… cared.
She gave me water.
She put a blanket down.
And when I laid on it, my body melted in a way I didn’t expect. It was so soft. Softer than the ground. Softer than the cold roadside where I forced myself to stay awake listening for your car.
I slept.
Not the light, fearful sleep I had on the road, but real sleep. Deep sleep that made my muscles stop trembling for a while. When I woke up, my eyes felt heavy and my mind felt foggy, and I remembered where I was and my chest tightened again.
But then she came over and spoke to me gently.
She told me I was safe.
She told me I could stay forever.
She started calling me Buddy.
But Mom, that’s not my name.
I already have a name. You gave it to me. Or maybe you didn’t, but it’s still mine. It’s the name I belong to, the name I turn my head for, the name that means I’m yours. When you come get me, you can tell her. You’ll see her face. She’ll look so surprised when you explain that this was all a misunderstanding.
And here is the part I feel most ashamed to admit.
While she was talking to me today, my tail moved.
Just a little.
I didn’t mean for it to happen. I swear I didn’t. It was an accident, like my body reacted before my heart could stop it. Because she was being kind, and kindness does that, even when you’re broken.
But I felt guilty right away.
Forgive me, Mom.
Please don’t think I’m choosing her over you. I’m not. I’m only trying to survive until you come. I’m only trying to breathe until you find me. My love for you hasn’t changed even for a second. It’s still the same love that kept me sitting by that road for two days, shaking and scared, refusing to leave because I believed you would return.
I’m still waiting, even here.
I listen for every car door. I look toward the window when I hear footsteps outside. I jump when the gate opens. A part of me is always listening for you.
Because you’re coming back for me, right?
Please tell me you are.
And if you’re reading this as a person, not as the dog in this story, I want to say something clearly.
Pets are not things you discard when they become inconvenient. They are not temporary entertainment. They are living beings with hearts that attach deeply, with loyalty that doesn’t make sense until you witness it. They wait. They trust. They love without conditions.
They are family.
Thank you to every person who rescues, adopts, and loves an animal for a lifetime. Thank you for being the safe place when someone else walked away. Because of you, this world is gentler than it would be otherwise
