We adopted Barnaby to die.
know that sounds harsh, but it’s the truth.
He was 15 years old. A senior Pitbull with cloudy eyes and a slow step.
The shelter paperwork said “Hospice Foster.”
His family surrendered him because he “slept too much” and had trouble walking.
So we prepared for goodbye.
Orthopedic beds in every room.
Ramps instead of stairs.
Quiet nights. Soft mornings.
We thought we were giving him a peaceful place to spend his last few weeks.
Barnaby had other plans.
Week 1: He slept. The kind of sleep that only comes when you finally feel safe.
Week 2: He realized he wasn’t going back. This wasn’t temporary. This was home.
Week 3: He found the stuffed toy.
Not a brand-new toy.
Not fancy.
Just a worn, soft little stuffed animal—and he carried it everywhere.
That’s when the “dying” Pitbull disappeared.
The dog who “could barely walk” started trotting proudly through the house, stuffed toy clenched in his mouth like a trophy.
The dog who “slept...

To the lady at the airport who pulled her child away from my dog...
You saw a 75lb muscular BLOODHOUND with a scarred ear and assumed he was a monster. You whispered, "Why is that beast allowed in here?" You didn't see the Purple Heart medal on his vest. You didn't know that three years ago in the sandbox (Middle East), this "beast" took shrapnel to the face while shielding my squad from an IED blast.
His name is Sergeant Brutus. He lost his hearing in one ear saving four human lives that day. He’s not staring at your child because he wants to hurt him; he’s scanning the room because he’s still on duty in his mind, making sure everyone is safe. He’s not a killer, ma'am. He’s a retired hero who just wants to go home and sleep in a real bed for the first time in his life.
Next time, just ask. He loves belly rubs. 🇺🇸🐾