How I Adopted My Human (And Snack Dad, Too)

By Editor | August 13, 2025 |

By Sweetie
K9 Correspondent

People often ask, “Sweetie, where did you find such a well-trained human?” And first of all, thank you for noticing. It wasn’t easy. But after a lot of hard work on my part, she’s attentive, minds well, and speaks fluent Dog Mom.

But let’s not pretend I found her on purpose. I was just a puppy—young, confused, and recently abandoned in a strange place by people with very questionable judgment. One minute I’m riding in a truck, the next I’m watching it disappear down the road, wondering what just happened.
I tried to make the best of things. Found some shade. Ate a bug. Ten out of ten: would not recommend bugs. Eventually, I wandered up to a house and parked myself under the porch like a forgotten Amazon package. I didn’t bark or make a scene—I just lay there, hoping someone inside might have some bacon.

The woman who lived there came out and said, “No. Not another dog.” Which, frankly, was offensive. I mean, look at me. I am 100 percent good girl with a tragic backstory and excellent bone structure. I’m basically the opening scene of a Hallmark movie. All I needed was a soft fade and dramatic piano music.

But lucky for all of us, this particular woman happened to be the mother of a classmate of the man who would soon be known in my life as Snack Dad. She had her son make a phone call.

A little while later, a car pulled up, and out stepped both of them—my soon-to-be human and the man she’s legally obligated to share snacks with. She had a “I’m not sure I’m ready for this” look in her eyes. He looked at me like he’d just found a $100 bill in his pocket. I looked back at them like, “Don’t blow this. I could be the best thing that ever happened to both of you.”

She crouched down first and said, “Such a sweet girl,” in the kindest voice I’d ever heard. I gave her the sniff test—faint notes of sweet tea, dog hair, and the unmistakable scent of someone who would absolutely rearrange her whole life for a rescue dog. I decided then and there to keep her.
She opened the car door and laid a blanket down in the back seat like she was expecting royalty. I hopped in, sat upright, and gave her my best “dignified survivor” face. If she was going to tell people she rescued me, I was going to make sure it looked dramatic.

We drove back to their house, and I could already feel it—this wasn’t just another stop. This was a beginning.

Ten minutes later, I was sniffing the living room, she was calling the vet for a checkup and Miss Pam about a bath, while he was offering me half of his sandwich.

“Don’t tell,” he whispered.

I didn’t. But I did give him The Look—eyebrows slightly raised, head tilted for maximum cuteness—and watched him crumble like a piece of cornbread.

Snack Dad, I thought. You’ll do just fine.

Now, at this point, my new human was still telling people she was “just fostering” me. I allowed the fantasy. Let her think she was in control. Meanwhile, I was already making notes on the best nap spots in every room.

She set out food and water, fluffed a blanket for me on the couch, and tried to act like this wasn’t a long-term commitment. Bless her heart.
She was “my human” from Day 1. She started calling me “my sweet girl” on Day 2. Snack Dad bought me my own food bowl on Day 3. And by Day 4, I was sleeping on the bed, diagonally, like I owned the place. Because, well, I do.

And just like that, we settled into a routine—one that revolved mostly around me, as it should. She had to learn that not all barks mean danger—sometimes I just don’t like the tone the wind is using. And Snack Dad had to accept that most treats require a 70/30 split. That’s 70 percent for me, 30 percent for him. Generous, I know.

Seven years later, she’s still my human, he’s still my Snack Dad, and I’m the luckiest German Shepherd in the state of Mississippi—with soft beds, treats, and two humans who can’t go five minutes without telling me I’m beautiful.

Which I am. Obviously.

Posted in Archived Stories