When I first saw him, he was nothing but ribs and fear.
He was crouched behind a dumpster behind the grocery store, eating scraps and dodging shopping carts. His fur was matted, his ears tattered, and his eyes—his eyes were what stopped me. Not just scared, but wary, like he’d learned the world wasn’t kind… and didn’t expect it to be.
It took three days, a bag of [chicken-flavored training treats], and a lot of patience before he let me come close. I didn’t plan on keeping him. I told myself I’d take him to a rescue, do the right thing.
But the second he fell asleep curled up on my floor—safe, snoring, and twitching through dreams—I knew he was staying.
I named him Rocket.
Not because he was fast.
But because I hoped one day… he would launch into a life he never dreamed was possible.
At first, he was skittish. The sound of the microwave scared him. So did ceiling fans, mail trucks, and the TV. He didn’t know how to play. He flinched at doorways. But he learned, slowly.
With every small win — sitting calmly for food, walking on a leash, not barking at the vacuum — I celebrated like he’d won a trophy. And one day, a trainer at the park said, “He’s really smart. You ever thought of trying agility?”
I laughed.
Me? Rocket? Agility?
But we tried.
And he loved it.
He jumped through hoops, climbed ramps, dashed through tunnels like he was born for it. The same dog who once cowered behind a trash bin was now leading the pack — tail high, eyes bright, soaking up every cheer.
At our first local event, he placed second.
By the third, he took first.
Now, he struts through the park like a celebrity.