I SLEPT UNDER A BRIDGE — BUT MY DOG KEPT ME WARM, ALIVE, AND HUMAN
People think rock bottom is when you lose your home, your job, or your family.
They’re wrong.
For me, it was the day I realized no one had said my name in two weeks. Not once.
Except for him—Bixby. My dog.
He didn’t speak it, of course, but every morning he’d look at me with those big, patient eyes, tail wagging slow and steady, like I was still worth something.
Like I was still his person.
We’d already been through hell together—eviction, shelters turning us away because of “no pets,” nights curled up under an old tarp while the wind cut through us.
And still, he never strayed. Never stopped pressing himself against me in the cold like he could keep the world away just by staying close.
Once, after two days without food, someone tossed a sausage biscuit from a car window. I split it right down the middle,
but Bixby just nudged his half toward me with his nose.
His eyes said, You first. I can wait.
That moment cracked something in me.
I started carrying a cardboard sign—not to beg, but to tell people who we were.
Because strangers saw the dirt, the frayed hoodie, the unshaven face.
They didn’t see him. They didn’t see how he kept me alive in more ways than one.
And then last week—just as I was packing up to move spots—a woman in scrubs stopped in front of us.
She looked right at me, right at Bixby… and said five words that changed everything.
