I am starting my story a little earlier, before Willi’s adoption day, because it was a long journey until I found him, the dog that holds my heart. (I apologize in advance for the long introduction. I am known for dragging stories out, very, very, very much. But how else can one gain the readers' understanding for the final conclusion?)

I grew up with two dogs. When I was small, people only looked for me where our dogs were: most of the time, my four-legged best friend and I were lying in the dog bed together, philosophizing about the topics of my childhood. Since an answer rarely followed, I tried every now and then to teach my friend how to talk – I was just too eager to know what he would tell me. The older I got, the more aware I became that I needed to learn the language of my dog or of animals in general. "I wouldn't travel to a foreign country and assume that the people there speak my language, or even that I should have to teach them," I thought.

And so, I learned empathy from my dog.

My second great dog love died shortly after I had left for my first degree. From that day on, I missed my best friend, as well as a whole part of myself, a piece of my identity (every dog owner knows this feeling all too well). But studies were now the order of the day, finding oneself (difficult when you had lost such a large part of it), growing up (also a difficult matter..).

My second course of study, veterinary medicine, then required me to develop a certain distance from our four-legged friends. Otherwise, one would be crushed by compassion. Dealing with dogs in the clinic or taking in foster dogs overwhelmed me: it no longer felt the way I knew it from my childhood. I therefore frequently gave up on the dream of a four-legged companion in my life. But the sadness about perhaps never again feeling what I fondly remembered from my childhood never left me. I still felt that a large part of me was missing.

For this reason, I still looked for a lost soul every day, was signed up to countless animal welfare websites and applied every now and then, took in foster dogs – "Foster dog with a view to a permanent home" was my constant subject line.

In the summer of 2020, a beautiful, large, agile dog looked at me through my screen: "This will be her forever home!", shot through my head. She belonged to an animal welfare organization with which I had registered a year earlier (as carefully as I always prepare for decisions in my life – my astrologer friend would say "typical Virgo"). The mandatory pre-adoption home check had also been successfully completed a year prior. I applied as quickly as possible and booked a trip to the country where she was staying (part of my conscientiousness included the plan to definitely meet the dog beforehand). A dog bed, leash, collar, and toys were ordered and on their way to me.

But then came the shocking news: one day before my departure to her country, I received the message that she had been adopted locally at short notice. A huge disappointment!

I left anyway and came to terms with the idea that this would not become a “dog rescue vacation.” It felt almost like heartbreak, which is why I didn't actively consider any other dog. After a quiet day on vacation, I fell into bed, picked up my phone, and tiredly scrolled through my Facebook feed. Dog look after dog look passed before my eyes.

Suddenly, a small white bear with the warmest golden gaze appears. I stop. Three pictures put together in a collage. It feels almost as if I know that look. Above it, the page name “Zwerge in Not”…

Five minutes later, I click on the "Send" button of my application email, which I wrote with the thought, "now I understand why I was turned down three days ago for a female dog that I wanted to take in more than anything in the world."

Two weeks later, I head out early in the morning to embrace my "forever home" dog at a rest stop near Munich. Panic rises within me. My rational mind kicks in: "You don't know the organization or the dog. He's small! Not big. And he's a male! Not a female and... intact! Will he bite? Will he be trusting? Will he accept me? What happened to the plan of having to meet the dog beforehand." Cold sweat. Pure panic. I wanted nothing more than to run away from the rest stop near Munich. Luckily, at that moment, a transport van pulls around the corner. Two men get out and press a blue EU passport into my hand. I don't know what they are saying to me; I can barely read, I'm so dizzy. They walk quickly back to the van and open the door: dog barking, dog howling... a dozen poor, frightened, tired creatures who don't know what is happening. The crate of my protégé is opened; I try to find his gaze, which could give me some sense of security... and then he is already in my arms, this little tyke, this warm, beating heart on four paws.

Pure happiness. No more panic. Here I know, here I feel: this is my forever dog. "I will protect you with my life; everything will be okay," a promise I promptly give him. With his tired eyes, he looks at me for a long time and, after a short while, wags his tail shyly and cautiously in response to my soothing words. Here I know he has understood that everything will be okay.

This is Willi: an optimist. A dog who, despite traumatic experiences, is cheerful, curious, good-natured, sensitive, independent, yet still affectionate, intelligent, and funny. He has middle names like Wilbert or Wilfred and wears them with royal pride. He prefers to lie upside down and grin at the world or chase a bird with the hope that his two mismatched ears will eventually help him take flight.

My heart dog, who brought the greatest canine love back to me. My heart dog, who teaches me that things fall into place as they are meant to. My heart dog with golden eyes, whose language I learn curiously and gladly every day – becoming more empathetic toward the beings we live with and who give us so much.