When my husband Ethan and I brought home Cooper, a six-year-old rescue dog, we knew he came with baggage. The shelter volunteer warned us: “He’s sweet but jumpy, nervous around strangers, and doesn’t trust easily.” I didn’t care. I’m a nurse—I’ve seen enough fear and pain to know that time and patience can do what medicine can’t. Cooper had deep brown eyes, the kind that looked like they carried stories no one had listened to. He flinched at the sound of keys or loud voices, curled up tight when he slept, as if bracing for something. But the day he wagged his tail for the first time, I cried right there on the kitchen floor. He was finally home.
