“Please,” I begged. “These will be the last ones.”
“Absolutely not,” my wife said firmly. “I will leave. It’s me or them.”
Two days later, we made an eight-hour round trip to Dallas.
This wasn’t the first time my love for animals had nearly cost me my marriage. Four years earlier, my younger sister had called me in a panic about a gorgeous, fluffy dog abandoned by neighbors who had moved away. I initially planned only to get him neutered, but before long, I asked if we could bring him home. Megan lost it. We already had five dogs, she reminded me. If I wanted to keep “collecting street mutts,” I could do it alone. Today, that fat ball of fluff—Albus—is asleep in the spare room with his best dog friend, while my wife sits in the recliner watching Netflix.
I never intended to build my own personal zoo. When I was 18, I adopted my first dog, Abby, a tiny puppy who fit in the palm of my hand and had enormous bug-like eyes. My mother once tried to take her from me, convinced I couldn’t care for anyone but myself. But Abby and I grew up together, inseparable. She was my shadow, my constant, my greatest companion.
When Megan and I started dating, she once tried to kick Abby out of the bed. I nearly ended things right there. How dare she try to remove the true love of my life? Thankfully, it didn’t take long for Megan to fall for Abby too. She even gave her the ridiculous nickname “Speed Bump,” warning her that she was so small she’d barely be noticed if she ran outside. Later, we adopted Bronze, a retired Grand Champion Rat Terrier with an intense fear of men. Naturally, he fit perfectly into our no-men-allowed household.
Our family of four didn’t stay small for long. One night at dinner, Megan jokingly showed me a photo of a six-week-old Chihuahua puppy. Within hours, I had her at an ATM withdrawing $200, driving into a rough neighborhood in Spring, Texas. Darby rode home perched proudly on Megan’s shoulder. She was the first—and only—dog we ever bought.
A week later, one of Megan’s coworkers told her about a puppy rescued from a thunderstorm, found crying and nearly drowning. Megan fell in love instantly. For once, I said no. We already had a puppy. Two would be too many. My foot was down.
For three nights straight, I woke up at 3 a.m. to the glow of Megan’s phone in my face, flashing photos of that puppy. “Please?” she begged.
Enter Scout, named after our favorite literary character. Between Abby—who resented every new arrival—Bronze, Darby, and Scout, life felt complete. Our dogs traveled with us, grew alongside our nieces and nephews, and filled our lives with a joy we never imagined.
Until tragedy struck. In September 2015, we lost Bronze in a devastating accident. The guilt, though unwarranted, consumed us. In our grief, I felt called—not to replace him—but to save dogs like him: the fearful, the overlooked, the “unadoptable.”
That calling changed everything. We plunged headfirst into rescue, welcoming Nymeria, Annie, Albus, Spot, Ghost, Bailey, Harper, Lily, Scarlett, Missy, Reese, Lola, and Gilbert. Each came with trauma, fear, or special needs. Each changed us.
Not all of them are still with us. Abby passed away in 2016 from congestive heart failure. I had left her chewing her favorite bone to take a nap and woke to Megan’s trembling words: “Abby is gone.” Gone where? I would have given anything to trade places with her, but I found comfort knowing she left peacefully, in her favorite spot. Bailey, Lily, and Missy followed—Missy living to an extraordinary 14 before oral cancer took her. Twelve dogs remain.
But the opening argument wasn’t about a dog. It was about cats.
I never liked cats—until one weekend Megan left town and I met Luna, a green-eyed black beauty at a Petco adoption event. That moment launched us into fostering, then adopting, then absolute chaos. Dozens of cats came and went. Some stayed. Eventually, we had 20 cats—and not a single mouse.
Space ran out. When the rescue closed, we were left holding the responsibility. We built a massive cat hotel on our property and moved most of them outside. That’s when my true calling emerged: special needs cats.
Jon Snow came to us eyeless, a tiny “Frankenstein” kitten rescued from a refinery. He grew into a majestic, confident boy who mapped our home flawlessly without sight. People asked how he functioned. The truth? He didn’t need eyes.
Two years later, I met Andrew—a kitten who walked in circles, who had survived a seizure and been left for dead. He reminded me of Andrew, the teenage boy I’d worked with as a special needs aide, who had Cockayne Syndrome and whom I loved dearly. I couldn’t save the first Andrew. But maybe I could save this one.
Andrew the cat had Cerebellar Hypoplasia. He was wobbly, tilted, imperfect—and perfect to me.
We lost him in 2019 to FIP. Jon Snow followed months later due to a bladder blockage. The grief was unbearable.
But it cemented my purpose. Nico arrived—eyeless and mischievous. Ollivander followed, deaf with mild CH and a voice loud enough to shake the walls.
Then came Yoshi and Buddy Holly. The argument. The ultimatum. The drive to Dallas.
Today, they—and their brothers—are our legacy. Through them, I advocate for special needs animals worldwide. Buddy Holly may have hundreds of thousands of followers, but I’m the lucky one who gets to love him.
This is our road to rescue. It began with loss and continues with love. It’s not easy. We don’t vacation. We’re always one emergency away from financial ruin. We fight. We sleep on the edge of the bed. But every day, we come home to a house overflowing with love—and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
