Misty Knew What Home Was

Misty’s first collar tells you everything you need to know about her start.

She spent the first part of her life in a kennel — used for breeding, never loved, never held the way a dog should be held.

That collar dug so deep into her neck they had to surgically remove it — they had to put her under just to take off a piece of leather that should’ve meant she belonged to someone.

She didn’t. Not back then.

She belonged to concrete floors and metal bars. She belonged to people who saw her as a means to an end — not a soul.

By the time she came to us, she was shut down. Raw. Scared.

But here’s the thing about Misty — she never let any of that ruin her spirit.

She learned what soft felt like.

She learned what safe hands could do.

She learned that a home means your name is called — even if you can’t hear it.

God, I can remember so many funny things that dog did.

We’d spend what felt like hours searching the house — “Misty! Misty, where are you?”

No answer, of course. She was deaf, couldn’t hear a thing.

And just when we’d start to panic, she’d come trotting out from behind the couch or wedged between a chair and the wall — tail wagging, face bright, like, What’s everybody so worked up about?

She was right there the whole time. Hidden, but home.

And then, one day, everything changed.

A nosebleed. Not just a trickle — it poured, sudden and heavy, a crimson reminder that sometimes life isn’t fair no matter how much love you pour into it.

We wiped her face, tried to keep her calm. I remember the way she looked at us — still trusting, still so alive.

We loaded her into the car, the smell of blood and fear thick in the air.

Peak COVID — the world outside already felt distant, cold, everyone shut off from each other.

Melanie sat in the parking lot, mask on, hands shaking on the steering wheel, waiting for someone to come tell her it would be okay.

But the door opened, and the vet’s eyes said it all. A tumor deep in her nasal cavity — aggressive, brutal, unstoppable. There was nothing left to do but let her go.

I still think about that moment — the weight of it, how a simple car ride for answers turned into goodbye.

But here’s the mercy in the middle of that heartbreak: she didn’t die on concrete. She didn’t die alone behind bars.

Our vet broke the rules and let Melanie in. She held Misty close, whispered the only thing that ever mattered — You are loved. You are safe. You are home.

You want to know what Misty taught us?

Scars don’t get to decide how the story ends.

A collar can cut deep, but love cuts deeper.

And sometimes the ones you think you’re saving — they’re the ones who save you right back.

We weren’t ready. We never are.

But Misty knew love.

Misty knew happiness.

And Misty knew, right up until her last breath, exactly where home was.