MalikethGSD
Member
- Dec 4, 2025
- 57
- 45
Maliketh's story starts with a gap in the timeline where he existed without me. It’s tough not knowing what he went through before our paths crossed. I often find myself wondering how long he had to fend for himself as a stray. Did he sleep on cold concrete or in the tall grass? Did he learn to look both ways before crossing a street, or did he rely on pure luck? The hardest part is wondering how many nights did he spend waiting for a door to open or a car to stop?
That missing year shaped the dog he is today, wary but willing to trust, scarred but still capable of love. He survived a world that didn't want him just long enough to find the one person who did, me.
When the ranchers found him, Maliketh was caked in dirt and trembling with anxiety, stripped of any identification, no collar, no microchip, nothing to tie him to where he came from. Physically, he was surprisingly okay. He wasn't emaciated or battered by the elements, which In a way tells a sadder story. It suggests he hadn't wandered far or for long. It suggests that he was likely driven to the edge of that property and left there, perhaps only hours before he was found. He looked less like a wild stray and more like a boy in sudden shock, waiting for a car that was never coming back.
Fortunately, the people that found him saw a life worth saving, not a nuisance to be chased away. The family there treated him with kindness, offering him a temporary shelter from his bad luck, but they didn't plan on keeping him. They became the bridge between his past and his future by making a post online about him.
I remember the moment I saw the post. In a sea of noise online, his face cut through everything. There was no long backstory listed, just the facts: found, friendly, needs a home. It’s strange to think that a few sentences and a JPEG were all that stood between him staying lost and coming home to me. I didn't know his history yet, and I didn't know his quirks, but looking at that post, I knew one thing for certain: I was going to get that dog.
I didn't hesitate. I typed out a message immediately, telling them that if no owner stepped forward, I was ready to get in the car. I told them I was willing to make the three hour drive that very day to pick him up. The day dragged on. The sun went down, and the silence from their end became worrying. I checked my phone constantly, hoping for a noti, but the night passed without a word. Then came the morning, and with it, a message that had me shaking my head.
“Sorry, we took him to the shelter already this morning.”
I was floored. I don't hold it against the ranchers, but I was baffled by the timing. Why put up a lost dog post if you aren't going to check the responses before driving him away? I had offered him a guaranteed soft landing, and instead, he was sitting in a concrete run somewhere.
The connection I felt was already too strong to let it go, so I messaged back instantly asking where they took him… And then, the agonizing wait began all over again while they took their time to reply.
When I called the shelter they confirmed they had him, which was a massive relief, but the conversation quickly hit a wall. 'Are you the owner?' they asked. I told them the truth that I wasn't the owner who lost him, I was the person trying to rescue him.
That honesty came with a cost, a mandatory four-day stray hold. To the shelter, it was standard procedure but to me it was the hardest wait of my life, knowing I had to sit on my hands for days while he sat in a loud kennel. The uncertainty was scary. What if the person who dumped him changed their mind? What if a neglectful owner came back to claim him, and I had to watch him walk away with the very people who failed him? But I didn't stop and hoped for the best. I advocated for him right then and there. I insisted they note my interest on his file, making sure I was at the very top of the list.
For those four days, I borderline spammed that shelter’s phone lines. I checked their website constantly, refreshing the page just to make sure his face was still there. I’m sure I was annoying the staff, but I couldn't help it. I knew how easily a quiet, unclaimed dog could slip through the cracks of a chaotic system, and I was determined to not let that happen.
Finally, the clock ran out. The hold was over. I immediately made the three-hour drive, fueled by the excitement of finally bringing him home. I walked in, signed the papers, and made it official: he was mine.
But the celebration was cut short.
It was a crushing blow to realize that 'adoption' didn't mean 'possession.' Because he wasn't neutered yet, another policy stood in my way. He had to stay behind for surgery and recovery. I didn't even get to see him. I had driven all that way, signed my name to his life, and yet I had to walk back to my car alone. Leaving that parking lot without him, knowing he was still in a kennel while I drove home, was an agonizing kind of heartbreak.
Seeing him for the first time was a weird, bittersweet experience. When the kennel attendant walked him out, he wasn't pulling on the leash or wagging his tail. He was trudging. His head was down, and he looked like he was just waiting to be put in another cage.
I knew I had to show him that his luck had changed. I sat down on the ground and spoke to him. It was like flipping a switch. He saw me and his whole demeanor shifted from defeat to joy. He came to me and covered my face in kisses, sealing the deal right there on the lobby floor.
Getting him home was another story. He was fresh out of surgery, sore, and clearly not used to car rides. The anxiety that had melted away in the lobby came back in the vehicle. He didn't understand that the backseat was his spot, he wanted to be in my lap. Keeping a large, post-surgical, anxious dog from climbing behind the steering wheel made for a white-knuckle drive, but every time he nudged me, I was just glad he was finally in the car with me.
Walking through the front door was the finish line of the rescue, but the starting line of the real work. The cone went on, and the reality set in. Almost immediately, Maliketh began to build a fortress around us. It made sense, in a heartbreaking way. He had finally found a stable home, and he was terrified that the world was going to come and take it away. His separation anxiety was severe; he couldn't bear to be apart from me, and the crate became his enemy, likely a dark reminder of the cage he had just left. But the biggest challenge was his reactivity. He looked at the edge of our yard not as a boundary, but as a battle ground. Anything outside of it was a threat. Strangers were dangerous. The world was scary.
He latched onto me with intensity, blocking out everything else. Even with all my animal experience, I found myself hesitating. I was dealing with a truly working mind, a dog who was constantly analyzing, thinking, and anticipating threats. There was a genuine shell-shock to his behavior. There were nights I lay awake with doubts creeping in, wondering if I was equipped to heal a mind this complex. But I realized he wasn't being "bad"; he was just trying to survive and relearn what it means to live in peace.
I had to teach him that he didn't need to a survivor anymore. I had to show him that I was the partner, the protector, and that we were safe.
It has been an evergoing process, but the dog I have today is a world apart from the frightened stray I brought home. We are still building his confidence, but the transformation is undeniable. He interacts with strangers now without that paralyzing fear, and his natural drive and motivation to learn have finally unlocked. The crate, once a source of panic, is now his safe haven, he is a huge fan of it now. But the best discovery has been Maliketh is, without a doubt, the biggest cuddle bug to ever exist.
I will never know where Maliketh came from. I don't know the name he was born with, or who left him out in the cold. But as I watch him sleep now, twitching in a dream, safe in a home he knows he doesn't have to defend alone, I realize that the mystery of his past doesn't matter anymore. I can’t change the first year of his life, but we have total control over the rest of them. The first year that shaped his fears is over. This is year one of his real life. He is no longer the stray on the ranch, the number at the shelter, or the frightened dog in the backseat trying to climb into my lap. He is my partner, my shadow, and my family. And that is the only part of the story that needs to be written in permanently.
That missing year shaped the dog he is today, wary but willing to trust, scarred but still capable of love. He survived a world that didn't want him just long enough to find the one person who did, me.
When the ranchers found him, Maliketh was caked in dirt and trembling with anxiety, stripped of any identification, no collar, no microchip, nothing to tie him to where he came from. Physically, he was surprisingly okay. He wasn't emaciated or battered by the elements, which In a way tells a sadder story. It suggests he hadn't wandered far or for long. It suggests that he was likely driven to the edge of that property and left there, perhaps only hours before he was found. He looked less like a wild stray and more like a boy in sudden shock, waiting for a car that was never coming back.
Fortunately, the people that found him saw a life worth saving, not a nuisance to be chased away. The family there treated him with kindness, offering him a temporary shelter from his bad luck, but they didn't plan on keeping him. They became the bridge between his past and his future by making a post online about him.
I remember the moment I saw the post. In a sea of noise online, his face cut through everything. There was no long backstory listed, just the facts: found, friendly, needs a home. It’s strange to think that a few sentences and a JPEG were all that stood between him staying lost and coming home to me. I didn't know his history yet, and I didn't know his quirks, but looking at that post, I knew one thing for certain: I was going to get that dog.
I didn't hesitate. I typed out a message immediately, telling them that if no owner stepped forward, I was ready to get in the car. I told them I was willing to make the three hour drive that very day to pick him up. The day dragged on. The sun went down, and the silence from their end became worrying. I checked my phone constantly, hoping for a noti, but the night passed without a word. Then came the morning, and with it, a message that had me shaking my head.
“Sorry, we took him to the shelter already this morning.”
I was floored. I don't hold it against the ranchers, but I was baffled by the timing. Why put up a lost dog post if you aren't going to check the responses before driving him away? I had offered him a guaranteed soft landing, and instead, he was sitting in a concrete run somewhere.
The connection I felt was already too strong to let it go, so I messaged back instantly asking where they took him… And then, the agonizing wait began all over again while they took their time to reply.
When I called the shelter they confirmed they had him, which was a massive relief, but the conversation quickly hit a wall. 'Are you the owner?' they asked. I told them the truth that I wasn't the owner who lost him, I was the person trying to rescue him.
That honesty came with a cost, a mandatory four-day stray hold. To the shelter, it was standard procedure but to me it was the hardest wait of my life, knowing I had to sit on my hands for days while he sat in a loud kennel. The uncertainty was scary. What if the person who dumped him changed their mind? What if a neglectful owner came back to claim him, and I had to watch him walk away with the very people who failed him? But I didn't stop and hoped for the best. I advocated for him right then and there. I insisted they note my interest on his file, making sure I was at the very top of the list.
For those four days, I borderline spammed that shelter’s phone lines. I checked their website constantly, refreshing the page just to make sure his face was still there. I’m sure I was annoying the staff, but I couldn't help it. I knew how easily a quiet, unclaimed dog could slip through the cracks of a chaotic system, and I was determined to not let that happen.
Finally, the clock ran out. The hold was over. I immediately made the three-hour drive, fueled by the excitement of finally bringing him home. I walked in, signed the papers, and made it official: he was mine.
But the celebration was cut short.
It was a crushing blow to realize that 'adoption' didn't mean 'possession.' Because he wasn't neutered yet, another policy stood in my way. He had to stay behind for surgery and recovery. I didn't even get to see him. I had driven all that way, signed my name to his life, and yet I had to walk back to my car alone. Leaving that parking lot without him, knowing he was still in a kennel while I drove home, was an agonizing kind of heartbreak.
Seeing him for the first time was a weird, bittersweet experience. When the kennel attendant walked him out, he wasn't pulling on the leash or wagging his tail. He was trudging. His head was down, and he looked like he was just waiting to be put in another cage.
I knew I had to show him that his luck had changed. I sat down on the ground and spoke to him. It was like flipping a switch. He saw me and his whole demeanor shifted from defeat to joy. He came to me and covered my face in kisses, sealing the deal right there on the lobby floor.
Getting him home was another story. He was fresh out of surgery, sore, and clearly not used to car rides. The anxiety that had melted away in the lobby came back in the vehicle. He didn't understand that the backseat was his spot, he wanted to be in my lap. Keeping a large, post-surgical, anxious dog from climbing behind the steering wheel made for a white-knuckle drive, but every time he nudged me, I was just glad he was finally in the car with me.
Walking through the front door was the finish line of the rescue, but the starting line of the real work. The cone went on, and the reality set in. Almost immediately, Maliketh began to build a fortress around us. It made sense, in a heartbreaking way. He had finally found a stable home, and he was terrified that the world was going to come and take it away. His separation anxiety was severe; he couldn't bear to be apart from me, and the crate became his enemy, likely a dark reminder of the cage he had just left. But the biggest challenge was his reactivity. He looked at the edge of our yard not as a boundary, but as a battle ground. Anything outside of it was a threat. Strangers were dangerous. The world was scary.
He latched onto me with intensity, blocking out everything else. Even with all my animal experience, I found myself hesitating. I was dealing with a truly working mind, a dog who was constantly analyzing, thinking, and anticipating threats. There was a genuine shell-shock to his behavior. There were nights I lay awake with doubts creeping in, wondering if I was equipped to heal a mind this complex. But I realized he wasn't being "bad"; he was just trying to survive and relearn what it means to live in peace.
I had to teach him that he didn't need to a survivor anymore. I had to show him that I was the partner, the protector, and that we were safe.
It has been an evergoing process, but the dog I have today is a world apart from the frightened stray I brought home. We are still building his confidence, but the transformation is undeniable. He interacts with strangers now without that paralyzing fear, and his natural drive and motivation to learn have finally unlocked. The crate, once a source of panic, is now his safe haven, he is a huge fan of it now. But the best discovery has been Maliketh is, without a doubt, the biggest cuddle bug to ever exist.
I will never know where Maliketh came from. I don't know the name he was born with, or who left him out in the cold. But as I watch him sleep now, twitching in a dream, safe in a home he knows he doesn't have to defend alone, I realize that the mystery of his past doesn't matter anymore. I can’t change the first year of his life, but we have total control over the rest of them. The first year that shaped his fears is over. This is year one of his real life. He is no longer the stray on the ranch, the number at the shelter, or the frightened dog in the backseat trying to climb into my lap. He is my partner, my shadow, and my family. And that is the only part of the story that needs to be written in permanently.