Willa Wasn’t Broken—The System Was


They planned to end her life because she couldn’t make them money anymore.

No ceremony. No second chance. Just one final decision: she didn’t serve a purpose anymore, so she didn’t deserve to stay alive.

Willa was a Cocker Spaniel who had done everything asked of her—delivered litter after litter, lived quietly in confinement, never complained. And when her body gave out—when it stopped giving—she was labeled “useless.”

One more night. That’s all she had.

When the rescue called, it was Melanie on the other end of the line.
“Dan, there’s a Cocker Spaniel who just got released by a breeder. She’s no longer able to have puppies, so they’re planning to put her down tomorrow. We’re calling everyone we know. Can you take her, even just for a few days?”

We didn’t ask for a photo. We didn’t ask how old she was.
We cleared a spot on the couch before we hung up.

I drove through heavy dusk on I-94, headlights catching dust and moths in the air. When I got there, she was standing in a small kennel—silent, but alert.

She didn’t cower when I opened the crate. She didn’t bark.
She just stepped out like someone who had spent her life surviving the storm and didn’t quite believe the sun was for her.

When we brought her home, Bear gave her a sniff and padded away like, “Okay, she’s good.”
Misty wiggled up beside her like she’d been waiting on her arrival.
And Bailey, our calmest, oldest girl, laid down nearby and kept quiet watch.

That was the pack.
And that was Willa’s welcome.

She didn’t ask for attention. She didn’t chase anyone down for love.
She simply walked to a soft blanket in the corner, circled twice, and let out the kind of sigh that carries years behind it.

It wasn’t just relief. It was release.
She had finally landed somewhere safe.

The Temptation to Keep

We almost foster-failed.

She was that special.
Gentle. Easy. Grateful.

She’d curl her body up against mine like she belonged there, like she knew exactly how close she could get without asking for too much.
And every time I looked at her, I felt it: the desire to keep her, to build a fence around this peace we’d made.

But here’s what I’ve learned—over and over again in rescue, in fatherhood, in coaching, in life:

Love isn’t possession.
It’s placement.

The most loving thing you can do isn’t always to hold on.
Sometimes it’s to ask, “Where will they thrive most?”
And to be brave enough to let them go when the answer isn’t “with me.”

The Right Porch

We found Willa the perfect family.

A retired couple in Madison.
They read the paper out loud in the mornings.
They roast chicken for Sunday supper and save an extra piece “just for her.”
They have time, space, patience—things money can’t buy.

They didn’t need her to do anything.
They just wanted her to be.

A week after she left, they sent us a photo:
Willa, belly-up in a sunbeam, her paws draped like she was holding joy itself.
The picture didn’t need a caption. I could feel what it meant.

She had arrived. Fully. Finally.

She Was Never Broken

Willa wasn’t broken.
The system that used her up and threw her away—that was what was broken.

She didn’t need to be rehabilitated. She just needed to be seen.
She didn’t need to be “of value” to be valued.
She didn’t need to give one more thing to deserve rest.

And that lesson… that one stayed with me.

Because how many people in our lives are carrying the same quiet weight?
How many of us were raised to believe that our worth comes from what we produce?

What if it doesn’t?

What if we’re already enough?

What if love didn’t require constant proof?

What if healing isn’t about performance—but placement?

One More Sigh

I still think about Willa sometimes when the house is quiet.
That sigh she gave. The one that said, I’m safe. I’m finally safe.

And I wonder how many people—how many aging parents, caregivers, burnt-out workers, widows, and survivors—are holding their breath right now, just waiting for someone to offer a soft place to land.

We talk a lot about saving dogs in this work.

But sometimes, I think they save us.
Because Willa didn’t just find a porch.

She reminded me to make one.

For her.
For my family.
For people who feel forgotten.
And one day, maybe, for myself.

If You’re Holding On

If you’re holding on too tightly right now…
To someone.
To something.
To a version of yourself you no longer need to be—

Ask the question:

Would they thrive if I let go?
Would I?

Because love that frees is braver than love that clings.

Willa found her porch.
I hope we all do. 🐾💛

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