955 hearts
Samson is one scrappy Boston Terrier living his absolute best life. Beyond dabbling in dog sports, inventing games with his rocket-brain, and outsmarting his human, he's been a therapy dog and a steady companion to someone fighting brain cancer, spreading warmth wherever he goes. He lost both eyes eighteen months ago and has faced it with grit, grace, and stubborn perseverance. Now his hard-won lessons on pushing through hard times are heading into a book.—Brenda Stewart
It's bladder-o'clock in the middle of the night. Everyone — me and the dogs — scrambles up, I let them out, and we pad back to the bedroom. I curled up around Shaggy on the big floor cushion and we got so snug I conked right out. Come morning I woke in the usual spot — only this time, there I was on the dog bed while Shaggy snored happily parked on the human bed!—Christine Riley
Hope, Faith, and Charity make up a suburban 'wolf pack.' They may skip the hunt, but they stay busy: hold iced-coffee runs, patrol for rogue chipmunks, and give the whole block a serious early-warning system every time a ferocious tiny Chihuahua marches down the street. These three never blow a single day.—Nicole Fuechsl
Cricket is a senior dog who'd been written off — shy, withdrawn, and failing his behavior tests at the city shelter. Then a senior-dog rescue threw him a lifeline. From the moment we met, I knew we were a match made in heaven. As he relaxed and opened up to new adventures, I did too. Cricket even braved me into writing a children's book about him — something I'd have never dared before him. If life is about finding joy, I found mine the day I found Cricket.—Michael Angelo Torres
Poppy was my everything — heart, home, and whole world. She came to me abused, disabled, deaf, and mentally fragile, yet she brought three-plus years of pure joy. She figured out how to be a dog: curling into warm blankets, discovering toys. She taught me wordless communication and patience when stairs took her extra long. She'd drag a toy to my son for a game of tug. So-called 'special needs' dogs give you the world, asking nothing but love in return.—Ellen L. Meade
Brewsky — named by some college guys — was our adopted heeler mix. At seven, lymphoma struck, and we went from diagnosis to goodbye in four hours, wrecked. I remembered the vet James Herriot advising that after losing a pet you get another fast — grief won't help, but saving another life will; it's not one specific dog but dogness you miss. Four days later we adopted our girl Gracie. We loved Brew, and we love Gracie, who enriches our days beyond measure.—Dinah Swan
Ragamuffin — that's what my grandma called her, and it fit: a shaggy straw-colored ball of fluff, half Winn-Dixie mutt, half tumbleweed. The hay-bale-with-eyes looked up expectantly, tongue hanging. I offered her a treat, the first of thousands. She melted into the family and now trails Grandma like a shadow. She may answer to her shelter name, Zoey, but she keeps her ragamuffin nickname for those days when grooming gets, well, overdue.—Joely Hart
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