“Be careful,” the animal control officer warned me. “He’s a lot of dog. His owner was rough. We don’t know what he’s capable of.”
His name was Titus. Eighty-five pounds of solid blue-nose muscle. Cropped ears—badly done, like scissors were involved—and a scar carved down his snout. He looked like a walking nightmare.
But when I brought him home, the nightmare wasn’t aggression.
It was grief.
Titus didn’t bark or pace. He lay flat on the cold kitchen tile, staring at the wall. He ignored toys. He flinched if my voice rose even slightly. He was mourning the only life he’d ever known—harsh or not. He looked terrifying, but he cried in his sleep.
Then three days ago, the shelter called. An emergency. A four-week-old bottle-fed kitten, pulled from a dumpster. No foster available.
“I have Titus,” I warned them. “They’ll need to be separated.”
I brought the kitten home in a carrier and named him Pip. Titus lifted his heavy head, nostrils flaring. I set the carrier on the table. He approached slowly, body low. My hand stayed tight on his collar, ready.
He sniffed the mesh.
Pip let out a tiny, squeaky mew.
Titus didn’t growl. He didn’t snap.
He whimpered—a soft, broken sound deep in his chest. Then he nudged my hand with his big blocky head, looked at the carrier, then back at me.
Help the baby.
I took a breath and opened the door.
Pip stumbled out, blind and wobbly, and walked straight into Titus’s massive paw. Titus froze. Then, with a tongue the size of a steak, he gently licked the top of Pip’s head.
For the past 72 hours, Titus hasn’t left the living room rug. He curls his huge body around that ten-ounce fluffball. When Pip sleeps, Titus rests his chin on his paws and watches him. If Pip cries, Titus panics and looks at me like, Mom. Fix it.
He’s not the monster they warned me about.
He’s not the broken dog on the kitchen floor anymore.
He has a job now.
He’s a dad.
Welcome home, Titus and Pip. Looks like we’re keeping both.
They said he was dangerous—turns out the only thing at risk is my heart.
