Why we dreamed bigger: Tripp's Story

Tripp will always have a special place in my heart.

He was foster number 41, and he stayed with us longer than any other dog—eight full months that changed both of us. Officially, he was probably ready for adoption around month four. Unofficially… I wasn’t. I was deeply in love with his cuddles, and I just couldn’t let him go yet.

Tripp came to us carrying a lot. Severe abuse. The loss of a leg. Scars that told stories no living being should ever have to endure. At the same time, I was carrying my own weight—grappling with depression and PTSD after we took in a litter of four puppies who nearly died from parvo. We were both in recovery. We were both exhausted. And somehow, we found each other exactly when we needed to.

Tripp loved to snuggle. Needed it, really. And when he laid on me, all 38 pounds of him, it felt like a weighted blanket—grounding, calming, anchoring me back into my body. He wanted to be with me. I wanted to be with him. In a very real way, we helped each other heal.

I’ll never forget the first time I gave Tripp his own bowl of food.

He stared at it. Then looked up at me as if to say, Wait… this is mine? He gobbled it up, tail wagging, then happily hopped back over to me on his one front leg, pride and joy written all over his face. When I put down a bowl of water, he drank so fast I had to refill it—and when I did, he looked up again, wide-eyed: And I get unlimited water?!

But the moment that undid me completely was his first bed.

I set it down, and Tripp froze. Then he climbed in, rubbed his whole body all over it, rolling and wriggling like he couldn’t believe how soft it was. A bed of my own? He slept so deeply that night. I can still hear his snoring if I let myself remember. That bed went with him to his forever home, and his mom still sends pictures of him snoozing in it, favorite toy tucked close.

Somewhere along the way, Tripp’s story traveled far beyond our home. Photos of his scars—left from a machete attack—spread across social media and eventually landed in global headlines, even being picked up by Newsweek. People all over the world fell in love with this dog who had once been completely overlooked. A dog who had been run over and left for dead, costing him his leg. A dog who had been tortured. A dog who had nearly died alone behind a bush.

And yet—Tripp was all love.

Seeing how deeply people cared about him did something profound in me. Tripp is the reason I felt ready to dream bigger. He helped me realize this work couldn’t stay small. That it wasn’t just about saving one or two dogs at a time, but about creating a real sanctuary—a place where many dogs could heal, rest, and finally be seen.

There’s one more thing I’ll never forget. I was sick once for twelve straight days, barely able to move. Every single day, Tripp stayed by my side. As if he instinctively knew I struggle to rest, he laid his full body weight on me and refused to leave. I melted into him. He held me there until I was well again.

When Tripp met his forever mom, Shay, everything became clear in an instant. As much as we adored each other, he chose her. He curled right into her arms, and that was that—he was hers. Love doesn’t cling. It recognizes home when it appears.

Tripp now lives about 25 minutes away, and we get to see him a few times a year. The last time we did, he leapt into our arms, tail wagging wildly, showering his foster mom and dad with kisses.

Some dogs pass through your life and leave pawprints.Others change the direction of your path entirely.

Tripp was the second kind. 🐾