In July of 2020, I lost my best friend.
She was thirteen years old, had black fur, snored louder than most grown men, and weighed twenty-five pounds.
She was also a pug.
When I say she was my best friend, I mean it. She was there through relationships, moves, heartbreak, loss, uncertainty, and every major chapter of my adult life. Through the loss of parents, difficult decisions, and all the twists life has a way of throwing at us, she never left my side.
When she unexpectedly passed away following complications from anesthesia during a routine dental procedure, my heart broke.
For months, I found myself searching for another dog. Not because I wanted to replace her. I don't think that's possible. I just missed having someone waiting for me at the door.
At times, looking at other dogs felt like cheating. Other times, I convinced myself it's what she would have wanted, as if she were a human and had somehow left instructions behind.
I began browsing shelters. Not really committing to anything. Just looking.
In the thirteen years since I had brought my pug home, the cost of pugs had increased by thousands of dollars. I couldn't imagine paying the price of a used car for a dog when there were so many animals already waiting for someone to love them. So I looked.
And then I received a phone call that changed everything. Well, technically Joseph received the phone call. The shelter called and said,
"Hi, we have your dog. When can you come get him?"
The only problem was that Joseph didn't have another dog. At least, not one he knew about. To explain that phone call, I have to rewind about a year.
At the time, Joseph was browsing Craigslist looking for free furniture he could refinish and flip. Instead, he stumbled across a listing that stopped him in his tracks.
It read: "Free to a good home. Dog is sick and I cannot afford to take him to the vet."
The listing made him angry. Not because of the dog. Because of the situation.
Joseph and I have always shared a deep love for animals, and the idea of a sick dog not receiving care was something neither of us could ignore. He contacted the owner.
What he found wasn't neglect.
It was a sixteen-year-old kid who had recently moved to Las Vegas from Mississippi and was trying to survive without resources, support, or money. Suddenly the situation looked very different. Instead of judging him, Joseph decided to help.
He picked up the teenager and the dog and took them to the animal shelter. By temporarily surrendering the dog, the shelter could provide medical care and testing at no cost. The concern was parvo. The puppy was quarantined while everyone waited for answers.
While that was happening, Joseph offered the teenager a job and genuinely tried to help him get back on his feet. After several days, the shelter called. The puppy didn't have parvo. It turned out he was simply eating poor-quality food that had severely upset his stomach. He was going to be okay.
Before releasing him, the shelter informed Joseph they were required to neuter and microchip the dog. When they asked whose information should go on the microchip registration, Joseph replied:
"Just use mine. If anything ever happens, I can help get him back."
The dog was adopted, returned to the teenager, and life moved on.
Or so everyone thought.
A year later, the shelter called. "Hi, we have your dog."
This time the situation was far worse. The dog had been found tied to a tree overnight in the middle of an August Las Vegas summer. He was suffering from severe skin issues, painful ear infections, and had clearly not been receiving proper care.
When the shelter scanned his microchip, Joseph's phone number appeared.
After hearing the story, Joseph called me. I still remember the conversation.
"What are the chances," he asked, "that you're looking for a dog and they call me to tell me they found my dog?"
Then he paused.
"I think we should get him."
I agreed almost immediately.
At least until he mentioned one detail.
"He is a pit bull."
Now, the breed itself didn't scare me. What scared me was the world. The stigma. The apartment restrictions. The rental policies.
The reality that so many places automatically say no to dogs that look like him. I knew that if we brought him home, it was a long-term commitment. And if it ever came down to choosing between housing and the dog? I already knew which one we'd choose.
Because of COVID restrictions, the shelter told us to wait in the parking lot and call when we arrived. They would bring him out to us. Joseph had described him as beautiful. He had mentioned he was still young.
Nothing could have prepared me for what walked through those shelter doors.
I had spent my entire life around small dogs. What came walking toward the car looked roughly the size of a horse.
A beautiful horse.
But still.
A horse.
I looked at Joseph and asked: "What exactly did we just do?"
And then I fell in love.
The horse-dog climbed into the back seat. He was red from constant scratching. His ears were painful. His skin was inflamed. The shelter instructed us to schedule a veterinary appointment immediately. The entire drive home, I kept reassuring him. Everything was going to be okay. Before we even pulled into the driveway, we had already chosen a name.
Chance.
Because honestly...
What were the chances?
The weeks that followed revealed just how neglected he had been. Every day became a routine of medicated baths, skin treatments, ear medication, and patience. I was convinced he would end up hating me. Instead, we bonded. Little by little, his skin healed. His ears recovered. The itching stopped.
And somewhere along the way, Chance stopped being a rescue dog. He became family. Years have passed since then. Relationships have changed. Homes have changed. Life has changed. But Chance stayed.
These days he divides his time between nightly spoons with me and daily daycare at Joseph's house. He barks too loudly. He scares strangers despite being one of the biggest babies I've ever met. He's terrified of vacuums, mops, and occasionally his own shadow.
You cannot pretend to shoot anything around him. Nerf guns included. He takes that responsibility very seriously.
He has no concept of personal space, his own size, or the fact that seventy pounds is generally considered excessive for a lap dog. And somehow, he still believes every room should revolve around him.
In fairness, he's probably right.
Looking back, I don't think I was searching for another dog after losing my pug. I think Chance was simply finding his way home.
And somehow, against all odds, he ended up belonging to all of us.