Pandemic Puppy

The house was quiet in a way that didn’t feel peaceful. It felt like waiting. When the pandemic hit and sent me home from my full-time job, everything else in my life froze too. My bartending shifts shut down completely, the side hustles evaporated, and suddenly all the motion I’d built around myself—jobs, people, noise, routine—just stopped.

And there I was: an extrovert alone in a house I’d bought after my divorce, partly to prove I could still do adult things. It was larger than anything I needed, and for the first time, I realized you can feel lonely even in a place built for company.

One afternoon, somewhere between pacing and overthinking, I opened the Oklahoma City Animal Shelter website. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Companionship? Purpose? A reason to get off the couch? I just knew I needed something alive in my house besides me and my anxiety.

And right there on the homepage was this beautiful American Bulldog, all muscle and melancholy, looking like he was about to release an album of emotional R&B. Without hesitation, I called the shelter.

“I want that Bulldog,” I said—like I was ordering a large pepperoni.

The woman on the phone was kind but very clear: “That’s not how adoption works.” She explained that during the pandemic, everything was appointments only. You had fifteen minutes to meet the dogs and pick one. No walk-ins. No exceptions. And the soonest reservation wasn’t for another two weeks.

I checked the website anyway. Completely booked.

Before we hung up, she repeated, “Fifteen minutes to pick a dog.”

I told her, “Fifteen minutes? I dated my ex-wife for three years. Did I mention she’s my ex-wife?”

She didn’t even pause. “Well, dogs are a lot easier,” she said.

That moment alone felt like divine customer service.

After that, I assumed the Bulldog was a lost dream—someone else’s destiny. I ended up complaining about this to a coworker over TEAMS, venting about loneliness, fate, and the absurdity of a fifteen-minute soulmate selection. While we were talking, he refreshed the site.

He froze. “Dude. A slot just opened for today. Four-thirty.”

I checked. He was right.

Suddenly fate seemed less like a spiritual mystery and more like a glitch in the scheduling software—but I wasn’t going to question it. I grabbed my keys and messaged my boss: “Hey, heading out early to go buy a couple dogs.”

She replied, “Good luck,” which is the most supportive way to say, “I’m not asking any questions.”

I arrived at the shelter at 4:30 sharp. The Bulldog was gone. Of course he was.

With the clock ticking, I met a Collie next. Lassie had raised my expectations, so I figured this dog might be smart enough to rescue me from my own internal well. Instead, he looked at me like I was interrupting his afternoon. No tail wag. No spark. Just judgmental neutrality.

I had minutes left. I was about to give up.

Then I saw him.

A boxer–pit mix with a dark brown coat—the exact color of a good stout beer—with a big, broad chest and an even bigger blockhead that made him look both handsome and slightly confused in the best possible way.

He wasn’t bouncing around or barking. He just looked at me—steady, hopeful, like he’d been waiting for someone who needed him as much as he needed them.

I took him into the acquaintance room, sat down, and waited.

He walked over slowly, pressed his stout, heavy head against my knee, and settled there like he’d already decided on me.

That was it.

“Oh,” I said softly. “It’s you.”

What I meant was: Stay. I’ll figure out the rest.

I named him Stout later—not just because of his color, but because he was sturdy, solid, something I could lean on without fear of breaking him. But he chose me first.

The early years were a full workout plan. Stout was a runner. A professional. A four-legged flight risk. If a door was open—even slightly—he slipped out like a furry magician. I chased him through neighborhoods, across parking lots, and once across May Avenue while he sprinted toward Sonic like he was late for a shift.

I’d find him sitting in a drive-in stall beside a stranger, waiting politely for a Pup Cup as if he’d placed the order himself.

Other times he disappeared into the woods behind the brewery where I bartended. I’d be panicked, sweating, picturing the worst, while he was sniffing trees and living his best National Geographic fantasy.

But eventually he stopped running. Maybe it was trust. Maybe it was age. Maybe he realized I wasn’t going anywhere. Now if he slips out, I just jingle my keys. He returns immediately, trotting back like, Yes, well, I was simply stepping out for air. Let’s ride.

It took me a long time to understand the truth of that day at the shelter. I thought I was getting a companion—something warm to fill the quiet, something to soften the edges of a lonely year. But I wasn’t choosing a dog. I was choosing a witness.

Someone who would see every version of me—steady, grieving, confused, hopeful, rebuilding—and stay anyway. Someone who didn’t care what my job title was or whether I’d folded the laundry. Someone who understood presence better than most people do.

Stout has been there through heartbreaks, job losses, new beginnings, family chaos, long nights, early mornings, and every questionable haircut I’ve attempted. He has watched me fall apart and get back up more times than I’d like to admit, and he has responded the exact same way every time: head tilt, tail wag, “You okay? Let’s step outside.”

Everyone asks about him. People follow him on Instagram. Sometimes someone will say, “Tell Stout I said hi,” and forget to ask how I am.

Honestly? I don’t blame them. He’s objectively the better option.

He became a good part of my life at a time when I didn’t have many good parts left. Not because he fixed anything—Stout isn’t out here doing taxes or solving my existential crises—but because he stayed. He kept showing up, even when I wasn’t sure how to show up for myself.

He didn’t heal me. He didn’t rescue me. He didn’t magically solve the silence. He just existed right next to me—loyal, sturdy, smelling vaguely like outside.

And after a lifetime of people leaving when things got heavy, that felt like its own quiet miracle.

If I’ve learned anything from him, it’s this: love doesn’t always arrive loudly. Sometimes it trots into a small room, places its heavy head on your knee like it pays rent, and quietly says, I’ve got you. Whenever you’re ready, we can go home.