Pets n Story

Troy was just nine, maybe ten. The kind of kid who always had crayon on his hands and a backpack twice his size. After weeks stuck inside, he started slipping these little letters under every door in the complex—bright red and blue scribbles, offering to walk people’s dogs after “this virus.”

Everyone thought it was sweet. Some neighbors even teared up.

But it wasn’t until I opened mine and looked up from the paper that I realized… Troy was standing there.

No leash. No dog.

Just this hopeful look on his face, like someone waiting to be picked.

“You got one?” he asked, his eyes flicking toward my apartment. “A dog?”

I said no.

He smiled anyway, but it didn’t quite reach all the way up.

“Oh,” he nodded. “Okay.”

And as he walked away, still holding a handful of notes, I caught just a whisper of what he muttered under his breath:

“I just miss the noise…”

And then he disappeared down the hall, leaving me with an ache in my chest I couldn’t quite explain.

Later that evening, while scrolling through social media—a habit born out of boredom during lockdown—I saw something that stopped me cold. A neighbor had posted a photo of one of Troy’s notes alongside her own dog, a golden retriever named Max. In the caption, she wrote: “This boy left this note earlier today. Isn’t he adorable? He came by asking if anyone needed help walking their dogs. What a sweetheart!”

The comments were full of praise for Troy—the same kind words everyone seemed to echo when they talked about him. But something felt off. Not bad, exactly, but… incomplete. Like we were only seeing part of the picture.

It gnawed at me. That tiny voice saying, “I just miss the noise…” It wasn’t about dogs. Or maybe it was, but not in the way we thought.

The next morning, I decided to take action. I grabbed a box of granola bars and headed outside, hoping to catch Troy before he wandered too far. Sure enough, there he was, sitting cross-legged on the curb near the mailboxes, staring into space. His stack of brightly colored papers lay beside him, slightly damp from last night’s rain.

“Hey,” I called softly, not wanting to startle him.

Troy glanced over, his expression wary at first, then curious. “Hi.”

I held out the granola bar. “Peace offering.”

He hesitated, then took it, unwrapping it slowly. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” I sat down beside him, careful to keep a respectful distance. “So… you really like dogs, huh?”

His shoulders stiffened, and for a moment, I thought he might clam up entirely. Instead, he shrugged. “They’re okay.”

“They’re okay?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like someone who spends all day writing notes about them.”

Troy looked away, picking at the wrapper. “It’s not about the dogs.”

There it was again—that faint admission. My heart sank a little, though I wasn’t sure why yet. “Then what is it about?”

For a long time, he didn’t answer. Just stared at the ground, his fingers tracing patterns on the pavement. Finally, he sighed. “My dad used to take me to the park. We’d go every Saturday. There were always so many dogs there—barking, running around, chasing balls. It was loud. Fun.”

“But now?” I prompted gently.

“He left,” Troy said simply. “Before the virus thing. Moved away. Said he needed a fresh start or whatever. Mom says he’ll come back someday, but…” He trailed off, shrugging again. “Anyway, I figured if I could hang out with other people’s dogs, it’d feel kinda like before. You know?”

I did know. More than I wanted to admit. “Troy, have you told your mom how you’re feeling?”

“She works a lot,” he mumbled. “She says stuff’s tough right now. I don’t wanna make it worse.”

Something about his quiet resignation broke my heart. This kid was carrying so much weight on those small shoulders, trying to piece together scraps of happiness because no one else noticed what he’d lost.

“Well,” I said, standing up and brushing myself off, “how about this? Tomorrow afternoon, let’s go to the park together. No dogs required.”

His head snapped up, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Really.” I grinned. “We can bring snacks, play some frisbee, maybe bug some strangers’ pets if they let us. Sound good?”

Troy’s smile this time reached all the way to his eyes. “Yeah. Cool.”

The next day, we met at the park entrance. True to my word, I brought snacks and a bright yellow frisbee. Troy showed up wearing sneakers two sizes too big and clutching a sketchpad I hadn’t seen before.

“What’s that?” I asked, nodding toward the pad.

“Oh.” He blushed, holding it close. “Just drawings. Mostly animals. Sometimes people.”

“Ever draw any dogs?”

“A few,” he admitted shyly.

“Well, let’s see ‘em later. First, let’s burn off some energy.”

We spent the next hour laughing and running around, tossing the frisbee back and forth. At one point, a friendly labrador bounded over, tail wagging furiously, and Troy lit up like I’d never seen before. For a while, we forgot everything except the joy of being outside, surrounded by life and movement.

When we finally collapsed onto the grass, sweaty and breathless, Troy turned to me. “This was fun. Thanks.”

“No problem,” I replied. “But remember—you don’t need permission to ask for help, okay? Whether it’s walking dogs or just needing company.”

He nodded solemnly, tucking the advice away somewhere deep inside.

Weeks passed, and our trips to the park became a regular thing. Other kids joined us sometimes, drawn by the promise of snacks and games. Even adults started showing up, bringing their own dogs or just eager to chat. Slowly, Troy began to open up more—not just to me, but to others too.

One sunny Saturday, as we watched a group of kids chase each other across the field, Troy leaned over and whispered, “Do you think my dad misses the noise too?”

I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. “Maybe. People leave for lots of reasons, Troy. Doesn’t mean they stop caring.”

He considered this, nodding slowly. Then, pulling out his sketchpad, he flipped to a blank page and started drawing. When he finished, he showed me: a picture of a man and a boy walking side by side, surrounded by bounding dogs and swirling leaves.

“It’s perfect,” I said honestly.

Months later, Troy’s mom approached me at the park, tears in her eyes. “Thank you,” she said. “Whatever you’ve done—it’s made such a difference. He talks now. Smiles more. Acts like himself again.”

I shook my head. “All I did was listen. The rest was him.”

As she walked away, I spotted Troy racing after a frisbee, his laughter echoing through the air. And suddenly, I understood: it wasn’t about the dogs at all. It was about connection. About finding pieces of home in unexpected places.

Life has a funny way of reminding us what truly matters. Sometimes, it takes a kid with crayon-stained hands and a hopeful heart to show us the way.

Message: Loneliness isn’t always obvious, and sometimes the smallest gestures can make the biggest impact. Take a moment today to check in with someone who might need it—you never know whose world you could change.

If you enjoyed this story, please share and like!