I passed out in front of the laundromat. One second I was folding towels, the next I woke up on the concrete with people crowding around, someone yelling my name. My chest felt tight, and my mouth was bone dry. I remember thinking, Not here… not like this.
I guess someone called 911, because the sirens came fast. The thing is, the whole time I was on the ground, Kiko—my mutt, my shadow—was losing his mind. He kept trying to nose my face, lick my hands, bark at the people touching me. He wasn’t being aggressive, just desperate. Like he thought they were stealing me.
When the paramedics tried to lift me onto the stretcher, Kiko actually jumped onto the gurney and refused to get off. He growled at one of them—not to bite, just to warn. I could barely talk, but I remember whispering, “Don’t leave him.”
One of the EMTs radioed someone, and I heard, “No dogs in the ambulance,” like it was policy or whatever. But then this older paramedic, tall guy with a sleeve tattoo, crouched down and looked Kiko in the eyes. I don’t know what passed between them, but Kiko stopped barking. He just sat, trembling, tail twitching.
They started wheeling me toward the truck, and Kiko followed, slow and stubborn, limping a little from his back leg. He has this old injury from when he was a stray. I rescued him three years ago, but honestly, it feels like he’s been rescuing me ever since.
Right before they shut the doors, I heard someone say, “We’ll figure it out. He’s coming.”
And then—just as they lifted me in—I heard a woman’s voice I recognized, out of breath, yelling Kiko’s name.
It was Mara—my upstairs neighbor. She must’ve seen the ambulance pull up from her window. I didn’t even know she liked dogs, but she rushed over, crouched down, and wrapped her arms around Kiko like they were old friends.
“Don’t worry,” she told the EMTs. “I’ll keep him. He knows me.”
I must’ve passed out again because the next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital with wires on my chest and a dry throat. A nurse told me I had a minor heart episode. Stress, dehydration, poor diet. “You’re lucky someone called in time,” she said.
I nodded, but all I could think about was Kiko. Where was he? Was he okay? Did Mara actually take him?
Later that day, Mara showed up. She had bags under her eyes and fur on her hoodie.
“He wouldn’t eat,” she said, sitting on the edge of my bed. “Just kept pacing and whining. So I brought him.”
Before I could even respond, Kiko’s little head popped around the corner. A nurse followed, smiling. “We made an exception. Just for a few minutes,” she whispered.
Kiko jumped up gently, resting his front paws on the bed, eyes locked on mine. He let out this soft whine, and I swear, it broke something open in me. I cried—not because of the heart stuff, not because of the IVs—but because this dog had stayed loyal through everything. Even when I couldn’t move, even when I was helpless.
Mara stayed with me the next few days. Turns out she used to volunteer at a shelter before she moved into our building. She never mentioned it before. Said she didn’t want people to think she was “the weird dog lady.”
We talked more in those few days than we had in the last six months of passing each other in the hallway. She even brought me a homemade soup that tasted just like something my grandma used to make. And Kiko? He finally started eating again—only when he was by my side.
After I got discharged, Mara drove us home. And on the way, she said something that stuck with me.
“You’ve always looked out for Kiko. Maybe it’s time someone looked out for you, too.”
I didn’t know how to respond. I just nodded. But her words lingered.
A few weeks later, I started making changes. Cut down my work hours. Started eating real meals. Went on short walks with Kiko every morning, even if it was just to the corner and back. And Mara—well, she started joining us. Sometimes with coffee. Sometimes with stories about her childhood dog, Smokey.
It’s strange how something scary can open a door. I thought I was fine, just getting by. But passing out that day made me realize—I was barely holding it together. And Kiko… he knew it before I did.
We don’t always get to choose our wake-up calls. Mine came on a sidewalk with a loyal mutt refusing to let me go.
If you’ve got someone—or somedog—who sticks by you no matter what… don’t take them for granted.
And if you’ve ever been that someone for someone else… thank you. We need more of that in this world.
Like, share, or tag someone who needs a reminder that loyalty and love come in all shapes—sometimes even with four legs and a crooked tail.
