Now that I’m in your home, everything feels unfamiliar—please be patient if I can’t sleep in my new bed.

Now I have arrived at your home, and everything feels unfamiliar. The smells are different, the sounds echo in ways I don’t understand, and even the silence feels loud. My paws hesitate on your clean floors because I’m not sure where I’m allowed to stand. Please don’t feel disappointed if I don’t curl up neatly in the soft bed you chose for me. Yesterday, comfort was not part of my world. I slept wherever I could—on cold concrete, on damp ground, sometimes with one eye open. If I pace at night or whine softly in the dark, it’s not because I don’t appreciate this place. It’s because my body hasn’t learned yet that it’s safe to fully rest. And if I eat too fast, barely chewing, it’s only because not long ago, food could disappear in a second. Survival taught me to rush. I promise I’m not being greedy; I’m remembering what hunger felt like. Every new rule, every gentle boundary you set, is something I am learning for the first time. Please guide me with calm hands and a steady voice. I am trying, even when it doesn’t look like it. Your home is warm and kind, but my heart is still catching up to what that means.

If I flinch when you reach out, please understand it is confusion, not rejection. My past taught me to expect uncertainty, not tenderness. Your touch may be soft, but I am still learning that softness can last. When I have accidents or make mistakes, it isn’t defiance—it’s unfamiliarity. Yesterday, there were no carpets to protect, no routines to follow, no one to show me better ways. Today is different, but change takes time to sink into bones that once braced for survival. Be patient if I follow you from room to room, unsure whether you will stay. Be patient if I test the edges of trust, inch by inch. You see a rescued dog standing in your living room; I see a whole new universe I must learn to navigate. But if you give me grace, if you let me grow at my own pace, I will meet you there. I will learn the rhythm of your footsteps, the meaning of your laughter, the comfort of your presence. And when I finally understand that this home is forever, I will offer you the greatest gift I have to give—steady loyalty, quiet devotion, and a heart that beats just for you.