I'm starting my story a little early, before Willi's adoption day, because it was a long journey before I found this, my heart dog. (I apologize in advance for the long lead-in. I've been known to expand stories very, very, very much. But how else can you get the reader to understand the final conclusion?)

I grew up with two dogs. When I was little, I was only found in the places where our dogs were: usually my four-legged best friend and I would lie in the dog basket together and philosophize about the topics of my childhood. As there was rarely an answer, I would occasionally try to teach my friend to talk - I was too excited to hear what he would tell me. The older I got, the more aware I became that I needed to learn the language of my dog or animals. "I wouldn't travel to a foreign country and assume that the people there would speak my language or even that I would have to teach them," I thought.

So I learned empathy from my dog.

My second great love of dogs died shortly after I left for my first 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 only too well). But studying was now the order of the day, finding myself (difficult when you had lost a large part of it), growing up (also a difficult matter...).

My second degree in veterinary medicine then required me to develop a certain distance to our four-legged friends. Otherwise you would be overwhelmed by compassion. Dealing with dogs in the clinic or taking in foster dogs overwhelmed me: it no longer felt the same as it did when I was a child. As a result, I often gave up on the dream of having a four-legged companion in my life. But the sadness never left me, probably never again to feel the feeling that I fondly remembered from my childhood. I still felt that a big part of me was missing.

For this reason, I still looked every day for an abandoned soul, was registered on umpteen animal welfare websites and applied now and again, taking foster dogs - "foster dog with a chance of a final home" was my constant subject.

In the summer of 2020, a beautiful, large, agile dog looked at me through my screen: "This is going to be my final home!" flashed through my mind. She belonged to an animal welfare organization that I had already registered with a year earlier (as carefully as I always prepare decisions in my life - my astrologer friend would say "typical Virgo"). The obligatory preliminary check had also been successfully completed a year earlier. I applied as quickly as possible, booked a trip to her country of residence (my conscientiousness also included the intention to get to know the dog beforehand in any case). Basket, lead, collar and toys were ordered and on their way to me.

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

I left anyway and came to terms with the idea that this was not going to be a "dog rescue vacation". It almost felt like heartbreak, which is why I wasn't actively considering another dog. After a quiet day of vacation, I fell into bed, picked up my phone and scrolled wearily through my Facebook feed. Dog look after dog look drove past my eyes.

Suddenly, a little white bear with the warmest golden gaze appears. I stand still. Three images collaged together. It almost feels as if I know this look. Above it, the page name "Dwarves in distress"...

Five minutes later, I click on the "send field" of my application email, which I wrote with the thought "now I understand why I was turned down three days ago for a dog that I wanted to take in for everything in the world."

Two weeks later, I set off early in the morning to hug my "final destination" at a rest stop near Munich. Panic rises inside me. My mind switches on: "You don't know the organization or the dog. He's small! Not big. And a male dog! Not a female dog and...not neutered! Will he bite? Will he be trusting? Will he accept me? What about the plan to get to know the dog first?" Cold sweat. Pure panic. I would have loved to run away from the rest stop near Munich. Luckily, at that moment, a van drives around the corner. Two men get out and press a blue EU passport into my hand. I don't know what they're telling me, I can hardly read, I'm so dizzy. They walk quickly back to the van, open the door: dogs barking, dogs howling... a dozen poor, frightened, tired creatures who don't know what's happening here. My protégé's box is opened, I try to find the look in his eyes that might give me a sense of security...there he is, lying in my arms, this little peck, 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 that I promptly give him. He looks at me for a long time with his tired eyes and, after a short time, wags his tail sheepishly and carefully in response to my reassuring words. Here I know he has understood that everything will be fine.

That's Willi: an optimist. A dog who, despite traumatic experiences, is cheerful, curious, good-natured, sensitive, independent, yet affectionate, intelligent and funny. He has second names like Wilbert or 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 unequal ears will help him take off at some point.

My heart dog, who brought me back the greatest dog love. My heart dog, who teaches me that things work out the way they are supposed to. My heart dog with golden eyes, whose language I learn with curiosity and pleasure every day - becoming more empathetic to the beings with whom we live and who give us so much.