I’m Ryan, 34, and my dog, Rusty, a black-and-white poodle mix, was my lifeline after a devastating car crash. Waking in a hospital, surrounded by beeping monitors, I learned recovery would be grueling. My girlfriend, Megan, came daily, snapping pictures, but her phone obsession left me feeling alone. When I got home, Rusty’s joyful pounce lifted my spirit. He stayed by me, his warmth easing night pains, his eyes full of love. “You’re my hero,” I’d whisper, patting him.
Megan tried to support me, bringing snacks, but soon grew restless. “Rusty’s too clingy,” she’d say, pushing him off the couch. “He’s my strength,” I replied. She huffed, irritated. As Megan faded, Rusty shone, sitting by me during exercises, licking my hand after nightmares. Three months later, as I stood stronger, Megan left. “I need to find myself,” she said, hinting at her ex. Then she looked at Rusty. “I’ll take him.” I laughed. She’d never cared—complaining about his fur, avoiding his care.
“He’s mine,” I said. “We got him together,” she countered. “He’s great for my stories.” I roared, “He’s not a prop!” She stormed out, but her texts demanding Rusty persisted. While at rehab, she snuck in, avoiding my cameras’ view but not their sound: “Come, Rusty!” The betrayal stung. Police called it a “civil issue” due to our past lease. At her parents’ house, Rusty’s frantic barks broke my heart, but her mom slammed the door. I turned to our joint savings, mostly my funds. Megan wanted half. I shifted it to crypto, texting: “Return Rusty, or lose the money.”
Her angry messages flooded in, but she soon returned Rusty, her face cold. He leaped to me, overjoyed. “Just a dog,” she sneered. “Just my ex,” I said, scratching him. Later, I texted: “Market’s down. Money’s gone.” A lie, but her theft earned it. Was it small? Sure. Worth it? Rusty’s snoozing beside me says yes. He earned his place with love, not likes. Megan lost hers by stealing my anchor. Trust, unlike cash, doesn’t bounce back.
