I'll begin my story a little earlier, before Willis's adoption day, because it was a long journey until I found this, my beloved dog. (I apologize in advance for the long introduction. I'm known for expanding stories very, very, very much. But how else can you gain readers' understanding of the final conclusion?)

I grew up with two dogs. When I was little, people only looked for me in the places where our dogs were: my four-legged best friend and I usually lay together in the dog bed, philosophizing about the topics of my childhood. Since he rarely responded, I occasionally tried to teach my friend how to speak – I was so excited to hear what he would tell me. The older I got, the more I realized that I had to learn the language of my dog ​​or the animals. "I wouldn't travel to a foreign country and assume that the people there speak my language, or even that I had to teach it to them," I thought.

This is how I learned empathy from my dog.

My second great love, a dog, died shortly after I left for my first university degree. From that day on, I was missing my best friend and also a whole part of myself, a piece of my identity (every dog ​​owner knows this feeling all too well). But now it was time to study, to find myself (difficult when you'd already lost a large part of yourself), to grow up (also a difficult matter...).

My second veterinary degree required me to develop a certain distance from our four-legged friends. Otherwise, I would be overwhelmed by compassion. Dealing with dogs in the clinic or taking in foster dogs overwhelmed me: it no longer felt like it had been from my childhood. As a result, I often gave up on the dream of having a four-legged companion in my life. But I never lost the sadness of probably never again experiencing the feeling I fondly remembered from my childhood. I still felt like a large part of me was missing.

For this reason, I still looked for an abandoned soul every day, was registered on countless animal welfare websites, and every now and then applied for foster dogs – “foster dog with the prospect of a permanent home” was my constant subject line.

In the summer of 2020, a beautiful, large, agile dog stared at me through my screen: "This will be my final destination!" flashed through my mind. She belonged to an animal welfare organization with which I had already registered a year earlier (as carefully as I always prepare decisions in my life—my astrologer friend would say "typical Virgo"). The mandatory pre-approval check had also been successfully completed a year earlier. I applied immediately and booked a trip to her country of residence (part of my conscientiousness was the intention to definitely meet the dog beforehand). A basket, leash, collar, and toys were ordered and on their way to me.

But then came the shocking news: one day before her departure for her country, I received the news that she had been placed there at short notice. A huge disappointment!

I left anyway, resigned myself to the idea that this wasn't going to be a "dog rescue vacation." It felt almost like heartbreak, which is why I didn't actively consider another dog. After a quiet day of vacation, I fell into bed, picked up my phone, and scrolled wearily through my Facebook feed. Doggie gaze after doggie gaze passed before my eyes.

Suddenly, a small white bear with the warmest golden gaze appears. I stop. Three images stitched together like a collage. It almost feels like I know that look. Above it, the page name "Dwarves in Need"...

Five minutes later, I click the "send" button on my application email, which I wrote with the thought, "Now I understand why I was turned down for a dog three days ago, even though I wanted to adopt it at all costs."

Two weeks later, I set out early in the morning to take my "final destination" to a rest stop near Munich. Panic rises within me. My mind kicks in: "You don't know the organization or the dog. He's small! Not big. And a male! Not a female, and...unneutered! Will he bite? Will he be friendly? Will he accept me? What was the point of having to get to know the dog first?" Cold sweat. Pure panic. I felt like running, away from the rest stop near Munich. Luckily, at that moment, a transport truck turns the corner. Two men get out and press a blue EU passport into my hand. I don't know what they're saying to me; I can hardly read, I'm so dizzy. They run briskly back to the transport truck and open the door: dogs barking, dogs whining... a dozen poor, scared, tired creatures who don't know what's going on. My protégé's box is opened, I try to find his gaze, which could give me security...there he is already in my arms, this little guy, this warm beating heart on four paws.

Pure happiness. No more panic. Here I know, here I feel: this is my final destination. "I will protect you with my life, everything will be fine," a promise I promptly make to him. He looks at me for a long time with his tired eyes and, after a short while, wags his tail, embarrassed and cautious, in response to my reassurances. Here I know he has understood that everything will be fine.

This is Willi: an optimist. A dog who, despite traumatic experiences, is cheerful, curious, good-natured, sensitive, independent, yet affectionate, intelligent, and witty. He has middle names like Wilbert and Wilfred and wears them with regal pride. He loves to lie upside down and grin at the world, or chase a bird in the hope that his two mismatched ears will one day help him take off.

My beloved dog, who brought me back the most wonderful love of dogs. My beloved dog, who teaches me that things turn out the way they should. My beloved dog with golden eyes, whose language I learn with curiosity and joy every day—becoming more empathetic for the creatures we live with and who give us so much.