That day, he wasn’t supposed to be there. However, he instantly recognized me when he saw me.
He was not supposed to be there. However, he still recognized me. 
I had vowed not to cry. Not right now. Not with all that had already transpired. Not with the smell of that place making my stomach turn and the dirt sticking to my boots.
Months before, I had signed the documents. released from detention under duress I don’t even want to discuss right now. It was meant to be the last. A clean break. No more communication.
However, he was present.
Behind that half-broken gate and rusting fence. Thinner, older, but still him.
Diego.
I had reared the same dog since he was a puppy. The one who would jump into my truck’s bed like he owned it and lay beneath my workbench.
At first, the man at the shelter didn’t think I was real. I suppose most people wouldn’t immediately assume that a man with a record, a shaved head, and tattoos is an animal lover.
However, as I crouched by the fence and said, as softly as I could, “Hey, D… it’s me, buddy,” his ears pricked up, just like they used to when he heard a cheese wrapper crinkle.
Then, as if he wanted to re-enter my life, he thrust his head through the bars.
I ought to have left. Everyone advised me to do that.
However, I…
However, I remained there, holding onto the fence with my hands, and he kissed my fingers as if he had forgiven me without even being aware of what I had done.
A volunteer approached and inquired about my well-being.
No, I told her. Since I had given him up, nothing had been alright. Since I got out, nothing had been alright.
I was not permitted to take him that day. They discussed waiting periods, papers, processes, and housing evidence.
I displayed a photo of my little studio flat, which is located just over a garage. Clean but simple. Two bowls are already placed in the corner, along with a door and a bed.
I was instructed to return the following day.
I returned daily for a week.
I helped walk the other dogs, talked to the staff, and offered him treats. Anything to be close to him without drawing too much attention to itself.
I was summoned in on the fifth day.
On the proviso that I attend some community classes on animal care, they consented to the adoption.
Without hesitation, I agreed.
I was in a room full of shy youngsters, exhausted mothers, and an elderly prick who was griping about “new-age dog trends.”
We discussed trauma, behavior, and cleanliness. I made notes about everything.
And all I could think about was Diego’s soft tail waving, like if he wanted to feel like he had the right to happiness once more.
I felt the same way.
And the day I left the shelter with him at my side, papers in my pocket, leash in hand… I understood that I had not simply regained my dog.
I had rediscovered a piece of myself.
