How a Fluffy Little Samoyed Named Bobby Changed My Life Forever
The Unexpected Decision
I was nine years old when my life changed in the most unexpected way. One afternoon, I came home from school early, and my dad suddenly said to my mom and me, “Let’s go pick up a dog.”
I was shocked. We had never owned a dog before, and I had always been too afraid to even pet one—partly because of my fear of germs. My heart raced as I asked, “Wait… are we really getting a dog? Where are we going?” Dad just smiled and said, “Yes! You’ll see.”
The Anticipation
The whole car ride there, my mind buzzed with questions: What kind of dog would it be? What does it look like? What if it’s huge and scary? Two hours later, I couldn’t sit still anymore. “How much longer?” I whined.
Finally, Dad pulled over and grinned. “We’re here.”
Meeting Bobby
When I stepped out of the car, I saw a man holding a tiny, snow-white puppy—no bigger than a fluffy cotton ball. My heart skipped a beat. “Oh my gosh… it’s so cute!” I whispered.
Dad took the puppy from his friend, exchanged a few words, and then carefully placed the little furball in the trunk. (Don’t worry—it was a spacious, comfy spot!) As we drove home, Dad explained that this was a Samoyed puppy, just two months old. His friend’s dog had had puppies, and they couldn’t keep them all.
I turned around to peek at the puppy. It sat curled up in the corner, its dark nose twitching, its pink ears still soft and floppy. For the first time in my life, I actually wanted to touch a dog.
Overcoming Fear
At a gas station stop, Dad opened the trunk. The puppy wobbled toward us, and Dad gently stroked its head. “Want to try petting him?” he asked.
Nervously, I reached out. Dad guided my hand, and suddenly—whoa—its fur was so soft! The puppy stayed perfectly still, as if it knew how scared I was. When Dad let go, I kept petting it myself. I did it!
That was the moment I fell in love.
Life with Bobby
We named him Bobby.
At first, Bobby was a handful—peeing everywhere, chewing shoes, and picking fights with dogs twice his size. Dad scolded him (but always secretly cuddled him after dressing his wounds). Still, Bobby was my dog. Every morning, he walked me to the school bus, watching until I drove away. Every afternoon, he waited in the same spot, tail wagging, ready to greet me.
For five years, he was my shadow, my playmate, my protector.
The Loss
Then, one day… he wasn’t there.
I got off the bus, expecting to see his fluffy white face. But the sidewalk was empty. The minutes dragged on. Finally, Dad came to find me. “Where’s Bobby?” I asked, already fighting tears.
He took my hand. “Let’s go home.”
Bobby wasn’t there either.
“He’s gone,” Dad said softly.
I ran to my room, sobbing into my pillow, remembering his goofy grin, the way he’d chase balls, how he’d bravely (and stupidly) bark at bigger dogs. That night, I cried myself to sleep.
Remembering Bobby
The next morning, I saw his favorite toy ball by my bed. I threw it out of habit—then froze. No happy paws scampering after it. No Bobby bringing it back.
Dad picked up the ball and handed it to me, then sat beside me. “He got hurt in a fight with another dog,” he explained. My heart split in two—angry at his recklessness, shattered by the loss.
Then Dad said the words I’d hold onto forever: “He’s just watching over us from another planet now. It’s okay to be sad. But we’ll be okay.”
I nodded, hugging the ball tight.
Bobby taught me to love fearlessly. And though he’s gone, that love—like the memory of his soft, fluffy fur—will never fade.