“He doesn’t know how to be a dog.” We adopted Simon as a “project.”

He was a bait dog. Used for fighting practice. His teeth were filed down. His ears were gone.

For the first month, he didn’t walk. He crawled. If you lifted your hand to scratch your nose, he would flatten himself against the floor and wet himself.

We bought him toys. He hid from them. We gave him a bed. He slept on the hard floor beside it. We thought the damage was too deep. That we could offer him safety but not joy.

Then came the thunderstorms.

My five year old daughter is terrified of thunder. When it started, she began crying in her room. I ran to her but Simon reached her first.

The dog who was afraid of his own shadow. The dog who flinched at a falling leaf. He jumped onto her bed. Curled his scarred, broken body around my little girl.

He let out a long, steady sigh and rested his heavy head on her chest. He wasn’t shaking anymore. Because she was. He knew what fear felt like. And he decided she wouldn’t feel it alone.

Simon didn’t know how to play fetch. He didn’t know how to walk on a leash. But he knew exactly how to be a dog. He just needed someone worth being brave for.