I hit rock bottom when I realized I hadn’t heard anyone say my name in two weeks—except for my dog, Bixby.
Even through the eviction and nights spent under bridges with nothing but a tarp, Bixby never left my side.
When food was scarce, one day, after going without for two days, someone tossed us a sausage biscuit. I broke it in half, but Bixby nudged his half toward me, patiently waiting.
That moment shattered me, and I began making signs—not to ask for charity, but to share our story. People saw the dirt and my worn-out clothes, but they didn’t see Bixby—my loyal companion. Then, last week, as I was about to leave, a woman in scrubs stopped and said five words that seemed almost impossible.
