My Joobie

 

While heading to a cosmetic shop with a friend on one of the busy streets of the city, I spotted a little puppy with pink, inflamed skin. He was naked, clearly suffering from mange, and people were throwing stones at him. "He’s disgusting," they said. I couldn’t just drive by. I stopped the car, got out, called the puppy over, and scooped him up in my arms. I whispered to him, "You’re safe now. I will look after you."

At the time, I already had... I can’t even remember if it was 9 or 10 dogs. He had to be isolated from the others since mange is contagious. His treatment took three months, and watching his transformation was both beautiful and inspiring.

When the treatment ended, I had to make the difficult decision to release him back onto the streets—I simply had no more room at home. I drove around the city, searching for a safe place to rehome him, until I found a woman with a hairdresser shop. She was caring for some street dogs, and a few of them were his age. One day, I brought him there, let him out, stayed with him for a while, and then drove away. But as I glanced in the rearview mirror, I saw him—standing there, lost. He didn’t know any of the other dogs, nor did he understand why he was there.

I went home heartbroken, pacing back and forth, consumed by anxiety and guilt. I couldn’t stop crying, feeling like I had betrayed him. My brother, who was heading out to meet a friend, tried to comfort me, saying, "Please stop crying." I replied, "I can’t. I betrayed him."

About 45 minutes later, my brother called me. "Come to the Viking Pub quickly," he said. I asked what was wrong, and he told me it was an emergency. I rushed out, still in my pajamas. When I got there, I found my brother’s friend’s car, and inside, I saw those familiar little eyes—crying. The puppy had found his way back to where I had left him and been brought back to me. When he saw me, he let out a cry.

That moment is etched in my memory forever. I named him Joobie—Mommy’s boy, spoiled to the max. He’s a gentle dog, wary of people, and it takes him time to trust. He sleeps at my feet and always needs to be close by.

I love him so much, and I’m grateful I met him that day. Today, he’s 8 years old, still naughty, playful, and adorably jealous.

Sometimes, I wish that those who hate and mistreat animals would either have a change of heart or simply vanish once and for all.

Love you, baby boy :)