14 People Who Showed Up for a Pet in Need and Got More Back Than They Gave

One time, I was broke with only three dollars to my name. I saw a thin cat digging through the trash. I went to a nearby corner store, spent two dollars on a couple cans of cat food, and fed her. She ate frantically, rubbed my leg, and darted off.

The next day, I passed the same place. A man saw me, hurried over, blocked my path and stopped me. “Here you are! Excuse me!” he said, his voice breathless and desperate. "You had fed my cat yesterday, am I right?

Turns out, he was the cat’s owner. Her name was Mango, and he had adopted her from a local animal rescue group a week ago. But she had escaped before she could even settle into his home. He had been searching for Mango for four days when he spotted me feeding her across the street.

By the time he dodged traffic to get over to me, she had spooked and disappeared again. Since then, he had been staking out the spot every few hours, hoping she would return for another meal. He was frantic, saying he was about to start calling animal control and every shelter in the city if he couldn’t find her soon.

I told him not to lose hope just yet. Since she knew there was a food source here now, she probably hadn’t gone far. We searched the nearby yards and bushes together for almost an hour before finding her huddled under a porch a few houses away.

The relief on his face was something I won’t forget. He kept thanking me for stopping to feed hungry Mango when I had so little myself. I told him it was nothing. I’d only spent a couple of bucks.

He shook his head and said, “You gave me my cat back.” That got me. I’d been so worried about being down to my last dollar, but for a little while, that didn’t matter at all.

I was wanting a pet that didn’t need much work, but the cat had his own ideas about that. I was in my first year of big college, grad school they call it, and my schedule was just awful. So of course I figured right then was a smart time to go get an animal.

I told the folks down at the animal shelter I just wanted a grown cat that likes to do his own thing. They showed me this cat named Malcolm. They told me he was exactly what I was looking for. Real calm, uses the litter box fine, and don’t need nobody to play with him all day. Sounded real good to me.

Well, Malcolm came home with me and right away he started putting his nose in every single thing I was doing. If I tried reading a book, he’d go and sit right on top of it. Using my computer? He’s stepping all over the keyboard. Cooking supper? He’s sitting right there in the kitchen door watching me.

Even when I took a shower, he’d wait right outside the bathroom like he was some kinda security guard. My cat that was supposed to do his own thing just decided doing his own thing meant following me around everywhere I went.

The funny part is how quick he got to be a regular part of me doing my school work. I’d go sit down at my desk to study, and he’d just hop right up on the chair next to me. When I had big tests coming up, I’d just talk out loud and tell him all the stuff I was supposed to be learning. He never told me I was wrong about none of it.

That’s some real good help for school right there. I got Malcolm thinking I could just fit a cat into the way I was already living. Instead, my whole life just got rearranged all around that cat in about a week’s time.

I was at the shelter today with my foster kittens for a checkup and weigh in. While I was there I looked out the window to see a volunteer walking a dog that looked just like Winnie. I walked out and called out to him and asked if that was Winnie, and as soon as she heard her name, she tried to come sprinting to me.

It definitely seemed like she recognized me. I did all of her tricks and training and she remembered it all. I talked to the foster care people and they told me they hadn’t reached out just yet because I currently had the kittens.

Winnie was my longest foster and an animal I put so much time and effort into. It was such a bittersweet feeling when she got adopted, but I was under the impression her adopters knew what they were getting into.

I made sure to let them know she was high energy and needed lots of attention and exercise, showed them her training and gave them plenty of tips when it came to my girl. All the things that they gave her up for.

We will be working with the humane society to find new fosters for the kittens and will be bringing Winnie back to her foster home. She is now the Humane Society’s longest resident, and deserves a home with people that love her and actually care about her needs, even if they are sometimes hard to deal with.

I want to find a home for her so badly. This is her second time being returned and it is all because people don’t understand the needs of her breed. She will be loved in my home and we will continue to train her and give her a less stressful environment to be happy in.

Barely twenty-four and living alone for the first time, I was convinced I needed a cat. The woman at the animal shelter introduced me to several. One rubbed against my legs immediately. Another climbed straight into the carrier.

Then there was Juniper. She stayed underneath a small shelf. I asked about her. “She likes people,” the employee said. “She gets scared before she remembers she likes them.” That sounded familiar. I chose her.

Juniper spent her first few days camped out under my dresser, a phantom I only heard eating once the lights went out. I made a habit of sitting on the bedroom floor with my laptop, purposely leaving her alone—never reaching underneath or forcing her into the open.

It paid off when a paw eventually slid out one evening, followed cautiously by half a cat. She planted herself a safe distance away to wash her face, marking our first real progress.

A month later she started sleeping at the foot of my bed. It took much longer before she climbed into my lap. By then, I had stopped waiting for it.

The adoption counselor had prepared me for a pet who might show affection from a distance. I had become fine with that. Juniper apparently changed her mind. She now sits directly on my keyboard whenever I work from home.

At sixty-seven, I had recently retired from an auto shop I’d owned most of my adult life. My daughter sent me a photo from a humane society about 90 miles away. “Dad, this one looks like you.” The dog was gray around the muzzle, which I chose not to take personally. His name was Roscoe. He was 11.

I drove over on a Saturday. Roscoe walked into the meeting room, looked at me once, then spent the rest of the visit facing the wall. The adoption counselor warned me he had been returned after struggling in a busy home. He liked predictable routines and didn’t enjoy being surrounded by people. Perfect. My house had one person in it.

For the first week, Roscoe slept beside the back door. I put a dog bed in my bedroom. He ignored it. I moved the bed into the hallway. He ignored that too. So I stopped moving things around. About 3 weeks after his adoption, I woke up and found him sleeping beside my bed. We never discussed it.

He started following me into the garage after that. I would work on an old motorcycle and he’d lie near the toolbox. People kept telling me I’d done a wonderful thing by taking in a senior rescue dog. They called it kindness. I never saw it like that.

I needed somewhere to be in the morning too.

My kids wanted the puppy. My wife kept looking at the old beagle. We went to the humane society for a puppy. I want that stated clearly. Our boys were 8 and 10. They had already picked names for a puppy we hadn’t met.

Then my wife disappeared. I found her sitting on the floor beside an older beagle named Walter. He wasn’t doing anything impressive. He sat beside her and leaned against her knee. “Don’t,” I said. She looked at me. “We came for a puppy.” Walter looked at me. I knew I was losing this argument.

A staff member explained Walter was around 9. He knew basic commands, walked nicely on a leash, and preferred a calmer home. Our boys came over. They forgot about puppies in about 30 seconds. Walter’s adoption was finalized that afternoon.

There was one problem. He had apparently spent part of his previous life receiving food from the table. Our first family dinner became a negotiation. Walter sat beside my youngest son and stared at his chicken with the concentration of a surgeon.

We worked on it. Within a few weeks, he understood where his meals came from. The kids learned that older dogs still play. I learned that my wife should never be allowed to “look around for a minute” at an animal shelter. Walter is 12 now. I am still outnumbered.

I fostered 18 dogs without keeping one. Then Milo arrived. I volunteer with an animal rescue group. People always ask how I give foster dogs back. Easy answer. I know another dog needs the space.

Milo ruined my system. He was a skinny little terrier mix with enormous ears. He hated the vacuum cleaner and loved laundry baskets. Nothing unusual there. I treated him like every other foster. Meals on schedule. Short walks at first. Crate beside my bed. Notes about his habits for future adopters.

Then Milo started helping with the next foster. A nervous young dog arrived and refused to leave the crate. Milo lay down outside it. He stayed there for most of the afternoon. The next morning, the new dog followed him into the kitchen.

After that, Milo became part of my fostering routine. New dogs watched him use the back door. They copied him on walks. They followed him into the yard.

An adoption application came in for Milo. I opened the email. I stared at it. Then I called the rescue coordinator. “I think I have a problem.” She laughed before I finished. Milo became my dog. I still foster. He still trains half the dogs for me.

My landlord said no dogs over 40 pounds. Hazel weighed 38. I wasn’t trying to beat the rule. I swear. I have been checking adoption pages for months. My apartment allowed dogs under 40 pounds. Hazel’s listing said 38.

I met her at a local animal shelter. She was a short, wide mixed-breed dog with one ear pointing up and the other doing whatever it wanted. I asked the staff member to confirm her weight. Thirty-eight pounds. Perfect.

I submitted the pet paperwork to my landlord before signing the adoption papers. Approved. Hazel came home. Then she gained 4 pounds. Apparently regular meals and fewer stressful weeks had opinions about my lease.

I panicked and called the property manager. She asked one question. “Was she under the limit when we approved her?” Yes. “Then stop worrying.”

Hazel settled into apartment life better than I did. She rarely barked. She loved the elevator. She learned which neighbor carried dog treats. Her favorite place became the small balcony, where she watched people cross the parking lot.

I had spent months thinking adoption in an apartment required the perfect small pet. Hazel needed 700 square feet, a few walks, and permission to occupy most of my sofa.

One day I was walking my dog and on our way back to my house, a squirrel ran into our garage. i let go of the leash thinking, hey, we’re home, he won’t run away or anything.

Well, turns out, the squirrel runs out of the garage and my dog runs after him. As a last resort, I step on his leash to keep him from running away. It wraps around my ankle and I fall to the ground. It was a little jarring, but I’m ok.

The next day my leg puffs up to the point where I’m limping very badly. We go to the doctor and find out that because I had twisted and fell (because of my squirrel-hungry dog) it aggravated a blood clot (specifically, a DVT:Deep Vein Thrombosis) which caused the swelling.

Since I’m only 15, blood clots are not common, so the doctor took more tests and we found out what caused it wasn’t just a clot—turns out there was a grapefruit-sized unwelcome visitor setting up shop near my bladder.

I started treatment immediately. It’s been 10 months since my dog caused me to fall.

I live out past the town line. One morning I found a dog asleep beside the hay bales. Big yellow thing. Mud on all four legs. I put out water. He drank and left. The next morning, he was back. This went on for several days. I’m fifty-eight years old, too old to be taking in strays.

I asked around. Nobody knew him. I took him to the vet clinic to check for a microchip. Nothing. I called the county shelter and filed a found-dog report. They posted his photo. I posted it at the feed store. Nobody came forward.

The shelter asked whether I could keep him on my property during the required hold period instead of bringing him into their kennels. Fine by me. I started calling him Haystack as a joke. Bad move. Once you name a dog, paperwork tends to follow.

The hold period has ended. The shelter called and asked whether I planned to bring him in for adoption. I looked outside. Haystack was sleeping beside my tractor. “No,” I said. “Send me whatever I need to sign.”

He still sleeps in the hay shed sometimes. There’s a dog bed inside the house. He has options.

I was 17 and needed volunteer hours for school. The animal shelter was close to my house, so I picked it. My plan was simple. Do the required hours. Get the form signed. Leave.

Then I met Pepper. She was a medium-sized rescue dog who became overexcited around visitors. People would approach her kennel, she’d jump against the gate, and they’d move on.

A staff member showed me how to work with her. Wait for 4 paws on the floor. Reward calm behavior. Don’t make the greeting a huge event. I started practicing with her after cleaning kennels. At first, getting 3 calm seconds felt impossible. Then she figured it out.

A family came in one afternoon. Pepper sat. The little girl asked if she could meet her. I stood nearby during the introduction. Pepper stayed on the floor. They came back the next day and completed the adoption.

My school hours had already been finished for weeks. I showed up the following Saturday anyway. The volunteer coordinator looked at me and said, “You know we signed your form already, right?” I knew.

I adopted a dog after my 70th birthday, which concerned everybody except me. My children had opinions. A dog was “a lot of responsibility.” Yes. I have owned dogs for 40 years. I was familiar with the concept. They worried I would choose a puppy. I had no interest in a puppy.

At the humane society, I asked for an older dog who liked slow walks. They introduced me to Ruthie. She was 8. The staff member brought her into the courtyard. Ruthie walked over, sniffed my shoes, then sat beside my chair. That was our entire audition.

My daughter came with me the next day. She asked the adoption counselor about Ruthie’s exercise needs, veterinary history, temperament, and every other question she had apparently prepared in advance. I let her ask. Then she looked at me. “She seems perfect for you.” I know.

Ruthie and I walk every morning around 7. We stop at the same bench. She investigates the same tree. Neither of us is in a hurry. My children now compete over who gets to watch her if I travel. Funny how that worked out.

Our rescue dog hated guys, and I’m the only guy living in the house. My wife wanted Daisy real bad. My daughter wanted her too. But Daisy, she didn’t want anything to do with me at all. Down at the animal rescue group, she went right up to my wife and daughter, happy as can be.

But when I took a step over there, she went and hid right behind the adoption counselor. The counselor told us how some dogs just need a lot more time to get used to certain folks. I told her I got it, but I don’t think I really did.

When we got her home, I was just the guy that made Daisy run out of the room every time I walked in. So I just quit trying to make her like me. I’d just set her breakfast bowl down and walk off. If I had a treat, I’d just chuck it on the floor near her instead of trying to make her take it out of my hand. I stopped trying to pet her head, too.

A bunch of weeks went by like that until one night, while I was watching a basketball game, Daisy wandered into the living room and laid down on the far side of the rug. She edged closer the following evening, eventually working her way all the way up to the very end of the sofa.

A whole bunch of months after the adoption, I dozed off watching TV. I woke up and there was Daisy, pressed right up against my leg. I was too scared to even move a muscle for nearly an hour. My wife came downstairs and saw us sitting there like that and took a picture.

Daisy still likes her way better than me, but I guess I’m alright with being second place.

I adopted a rescue dog who adored everyone except my new boyfriend. Every time he came over, she stood between him and my 8-year-old son and growled. I blamed her past.

She had come from an animal shelter with very little history, and my boyfriend mostly just laughed off her protective stance.

Then at 2 a.m., I found her clawing at my son’s door. I gasped when I opened it. My boyfriend was already inside, kneeling by the bed. He had gotten up for a glass of water, heard my son wheezing and rushed in to help.

My son was sitting upright in bed, pale and shaking. “Where is his inhaler?” my boyfriend yelled, frantically digging through the nightstand drawer.

I ran in to help. The dog pushed past my legs, tense and barking at my boyfriend, instinctively ready to protect my son. But as we both scrambled to find medicine and comfort him, her demeanor shifted. She stopped barking, walked over, and leaned against my boyfriend’s leg, whining softly.

We found the inhaler, and my son stabilized. That night changed something in the dog.

After things settled down, she watched him closely. But the next time he sat on the couch, she walked over, sniffed his hand, and lay down beside his feet. I had spent weeks assuming her growling meant she knew something bad about him. Maybe she had simply been scared.

The strange part was that when something truly went wrong, she didn’t choose between them. She saw that he was helping, and she accepted him. That rescue dog had spent weeks standing between my boyfriend and my son. At 2 a.m., she became a family dog.