It was just a rainy evening after college when I saw him—a small, shivering dog standing alone outside a chai shop. I was never a dog lover. In fact, I was scared of them. But something about him made me pause.
The next day, I brought biscuits and saw him again, sitting in the same spot. He had a broken chain on his neck—he wasn’t a street dog, just abandoned. He barked when I approached, so I left the food and quietly walked away.
Days turned into weeks. I kept showing up, and he started trusting me. One day, he ate from my hand—for the first time. After that, he began following me around like I was his person.
When I fell sick and missed college for three days, he waited. The day I returned, he jumped all over me. As I left, he followed me home, crying when I got in the auto. I gave in and brought him home.
My mom said no at first, but now he loves her more than me. We named him Doodle. He’s changed my life—he wakes me up, walks with me, comforts me when I’m low, and dances with me when I’m happy.
I saved him, yes—but he saved me too.
