Dwain Northey (Gen X)

I didn’t expect to be writing something like this, and if I’m being honest, I’ve gone back and forth about how to even say it without sounding either colder than I feel or softer than the reality deserves.

First, I should be clear about one thing—I wasn’t the one who rescued Buck. I didn’t go out looking for him, didn’t make that initial choice with open eyes and a plan. He was brought into my life, and I was the one who ended up with him, the one who tried to make it work once he was already here.

Bringing Buck back to the shelter wasn’t an easy decision, even if on paper it might look like a simple one. He’s not a bad dog. That part matters to me, and I want it said out loud. He’s just… a lot. Loud in a way that fills every corner of a space, restless in a way that doesn’t settle, and wired for a life that doesn’t really fit inside the walls I have to live within.

And the truth is, I’m not the person he needs. I don’t have the patience, the space, or honestly the inclination to turn him into the dog he could probably become with the right person. That’s not me being cruel—it’s me being realistic. There’s a version of this story where I keep him and try to force it, but that version probably ends worse for both of us.

Still, none of that makes it feel good.

Because even if I didn’t bond with him the way people always hope you will, I’m not made of stone. I know what it means for a dog to go back into that system, into confinement, into waiting. That part sits heavy. It’s one thing to admit something isn’t working; it’s another to know the consequence of that truth for something that doesn’t get a say.

If circumstances were different—more space, fewer constraints, a life that could absorb his energy instead of being overwhelmed by it—maybe this ends another way. But it’s not. And when the choice comes down to keeping a roof over my head or stretching things to a breaking point for his sake, that’s not really a choice at all, no matter how much I might wish it were.

So this is the part that feels like an apology, even if I don’t know who exactly I’m apologizing to. Maybe to him. Maybe to myself for not being better suited. Maybe to the idea that things should have worked out differently.

What I do hope—genuinely—is that someone else walks into that shelter and sees what I couldn’t fully step into. Someone with more room, more patience, more willingness to meet him where he is and shape him into something better. Because I do think that’s possible for him.

Letting him go doesn’t mean I don’t care. It just means caring doesn’t always translate into keeping.

And sometimes, doing what you have to do doesn’t feel right—but it’s still what has to be done.