He was a mess. Dirty clothes. Dirty hair. Desperately needed a shower. Because living outside is not easy. Especially where he was. He was also a veteran. And he deserved better. There’s no way to sugar coat it. It was not good.

It was the third time I’d seen him. Each time I spoke to him about his dog because that was the only thing that seemed to bring him joy. Anything else caused him to shout. But his dog, when I asked about her, he gently reached out his hand and scratched her neck. And she loved it.

She’s a pit bull. Big and strong. And beautiful. Thankfully she had already been spayed. And despite her imposing presence, I could tell that she so badly wanted to roll around on the ground and have me rub her belly. But she could not do that.

Because her job was to protect him. Because he was all she had.

That first visit she stood solidly between us. The second visit she did the same, but she let me get close enough to shake his hand. And this time, this time she sat down and seemed to relax for a moment.

Maybe she remembered I’m the guy that brought food and treats and other good stuff. I’d even brought some dog shampoo and big jugs of water so she could get a bath.

So here was this man fighting demons everywhere. He was dirty and hungry and in need of a lot of help. And here was his dog. She had regular food, lots of blankets to sleep on and she was happy.

He took care of her better than he took care of himself. And while I was happy to see her looking good, it broke my heart to see him. Because I wanted to help him too. But I could not find a way inside.

I wanted to reach him, to connect with him in some manner so I could also connect him with some services that could bring him at least a few moments of comfort. Even though he said he already knew all of the services that could help.

He had, in so many ways, simply walked away. He was breaking.

I once shared my disappointment with a social worker, saying how futile it felt when I could not help. And the social worker told me that social workers often feel that same way. Because even with all of their schooling and training, sometimes it just doesn’t go the way they hope it would.

But I had to find a way to make it better. Because without him, she was going to become another pit bull shuffled from street person to street person. Or worse. And I did not want that to happen.

The life he was leading and the place he was living just haunted me. But how could I reach him. And did he even want me to try?

I cried after I saw them on my fourth visit. It was a shock. He still needed some fresh clothes and a shower and even though I could help him with that, he refused those overtures.

But he did thank me for the toothbrush and toothpaste and deodorant I’d brought. That was something. Right?

But those tears I shed? They were tears of joy. Because this time he greeted me with a wave and a smile. And her? His big and beautiful pibble friend?

She came romping over with a little soft and fluffy terrycloth teddy bear in her mouth. She carried it ever so gently and dropped it at my feet. And when she bowed her head down, nosing me to throw it, I could see that she was also wearing the pretty collar I’d brought for her the last time.

To the donor that sent the beautiful handwritten note with a ten-dollar bill inside. You said that you are homeless and you told me how much your dog loved little soft toys. You asked me to use your $10 for something special. That teddy bear? That’s what your $10 was used for. A beautiful soft and fluffy teddy bear.

A teddy bear that may very well turn out to be the bridge that saves two-lives. Both two-legged and four.

It all starts with a bowl of food. But where it goes after that is anyone’s guess.

This time we made progress. One step, one wave, one smile and one soft and fluffy teddy bear at a time.

And this is why we Pongo.

Sit. Stay. Eat. Live. thepongofund.org

(Due to respect and privacy, the dog in the photo is not the dog in the story)