We Rescued Each Other: How My Dog Helped Me Survive Grief

August is National Dog Month, which feels like the perfect time to talk about someone incredibly important in my life: my dog, Lucky. He’s more than just a good boy—he’s the scruffy little soul who helped carry me through the darkest stretch of my life.

When we first met Lucky, we weren’t looking for a dog. In fact, we weren’t even remotely interested in the responsibility. But the universe had other plans. Wil’s mom was fostering a little dog from Mexico—shy, scared, practically invisible. The moment I laid eyes on him, I knew. That dog was mine.

He was catatonic at first—wouldn’t look at anyone, would freeze in fear, and had cataracts so bad we were told he was mostly blind. But something in me screamed, “Save him.” So we did.

At the time, we were working on the road and living in a camper. Not exactly the ideal setup for adopting a traumatized dog, but it turned out to be perfect for bonding. He was already bell-trained to go outside, which helped. But we soon realized he’d likely been abused. Loud noises terrified him. If Wil and I were just goofing off, Lucky would tremble for hours. That kind of fear doesn’t come from nowhere.

So we adapted. We toned it down. We gave him space. And over time, Lucky softened. His tail lifted. He started wagging. He played. He snuggled. And when I broke down—when the grief of losing my son and father threatened to crush me—Lucky was there. He let me cry into his fur, lick my hand when I was spiraling, and nudge me to play when I needed a reason to move.

He became my emotional support animal, even if unofficially. When your grief is too heavy to carry, and someone shows up—silent, warm, and willing to sit in it with you—that's not just a pet. That’s a lifeline.

Eventually, we got his cataracts fixed. One surgery worked perfectly. The other? Not so much. He’s now blind in one eye but can see perfectly with the other. And that one good eye changed everything. With vision came confidence. Personality. Barking (so much barking). He became a watchdog, a couch shadow, and an absolute clown.

And me? I started healing too.

There’s real science behind the healing power of pets. Studies show that the presence of a dog can lower cortisol (that lovely stress hormone) and increase oxytocin (the one that makes you feel love and safety). People coping with grief who own pets often report less loneliness, more routine, and a stronger sense of purpose.

But I didn’t need a study to tell me that. I just needed Lucky.

He follows me everywhere. I joke he’s going to kill me one day by getting underfoot, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. When I shower, he whines outside the tub. When I use the bathroom, he’s right there like a stage-five clinger. It’s exhausting. It’s ridiculous. It’s the best thing that ever happened to me.

Yes, we gave Lucky a better life. But let’s be honest—he saved mine right back.