Aussie Lovers

10/15/2026

I'm not going to get a kiss 😥😥 cuz I'm not perfect 💔💔😳

10/15/2026

My Australian Shepherd was taken by a coyote right in front of me Saturday afternoon. Broad daylight. I was maybe 20 feet away when it grabbed Blythe and disappeared into the woods behind our yard. I chased them and somehow found her lying completely still in a small clearing. She didn’t cry or make a sound. I honestly thought she was gone. I said her name and her eyes slowly turned toward me. Then that curled tail gave the smallest little twitch.
She’s in the emergency hospital with broken ribs, a punctured lung and some other injuries. They finally stabilized her blood pressure, but her temperature keeps going up and down. She was stable when I left about 30 minutes ago. Even now she’s lying there quietly watching everyone with that same serious Australian Shepherd expression. Please keep Blythe in your thoughts. ❤️

10/15/2026

Found this beautiful soul near work—
mud on his paws,
fur dull from too many hard days,
those sharp Aussie eyes somehow still gentle… still hopeful.
When management said if no one picked him up,
they’d “make him disappear,”
something in me snapped.
I knew I couldn’t let his story end like that.
So I wrapped him up,
brought him home,
and set him up a warm, quiet corner in a cardboard box—
safe, soft, finally his ❤️🐾
He even got his very first surprise bath
(yes… the sink again 😅),
and instead of fighting it,
he just stood there—
patient, calm—
like cooperation is written into his soul.
The vet confirmed what my heart already felt:
he was exhausted, underfed,
clearly carrying the weight of a rough past…
but that mind?
Still sharp. Still trying. Still trusting.
For now, he’s separated from my other pets
while he settles in.
Slow introductions. Gentle days.
Safety first, comfort always.
And let me tell you…
he is the sweetest, most intelligent, calm little Australian Shepherd.
He watches everything—
every move I make—
like he’s studying the rules of this new life,
learning what safe looks like.
He follows me quietly,
then curls up nearby,
rests his head down,
and finally lets his guard fall.
That deep breath he takes before sleep?
That’s relief.
That’s a dog who’s starting to believe
he doesn’t have to survive anymore.
Maybe he wasn’t abandoned.
Maybe he was just waiting for someone
who would see him—and stay. ❤️🐾

10/15/2026

He won't leave me alone. Ever since the day I took him out of the shelter, he follows me everywhere, as if he’s afraid that if he closes his eyes, everything might disappear.
This white merle Australian Shepherd has known too many closed doors. Too many raised voices. Too many judging eyes that never saw the gentle soul behind his intense gaze and agile frame. So now, he watches me constantly — not out of neediness, but to make sure I’m real… that I won’t disappear like the others did.
I only know part of his story. He was found tied to a rope in front of an empty house. No collar. No name. Just an overturned bowl and loyalty that refused to move. Neighbors said he waited there for days — sitting, watching, hoping. Refusing to understand that his humans weren’t coming back. When I first met him, he had that look… the one only abandoned dogs have. A mix of fear, confusion, and unconditional love for the very people who left him behind.
The first few days at home were hard. Every sound made him flinch. Every step I took away from him made his body tremble. Nights were the worst — pacing, circling, resting his Aussie head on my lap the moment I sat down. He didn’t want food. He didn’t want toys. He just needed to know I was still there.
So one morning, without overthinking it, I took him to work.
I laid out a blanket near my desk, thinking he’d rest there. But he had other plans. He climbed right into my lap — all warmth, muscle, and wounded trust. His breathing was fast at first. His heart raced against mine… then slowly, it matched my rhythm. And right there, in an office chair, surrounded by keyboards and paperwork, this anxious Aussie finally slept. Not the light, restless sleep of fear — but deep, peaceful sleep. Like he finally let the world go.
Since that day, he comes with me every morning. He curls up in my chair, watches the door, sometimes rests his head against my chest while I work. He still panics when he loses sight of me, even for a moment — but each day, it gets better. Every gentle touch. Every calm word. Every smile teaches him something new: that not all humans hurt… some heal.
Some days, I still feel angry. I don’t understand how anyone could abandon a dog this loyal. How someone could walk away from eyes that love without conditions. An Australian Shepherd doesn’t ask for much — just love, time, and a place to belong. He doesn’t hold grudges. He forgives even the unforgivable. And somehow, that’s what hurts the most.
Today, he’s doing better. He plays again. He runs. He “smiles” in that goofy Aussie way. And when I see him resting on me while I work, I’m grateful I didn’t listen to the people who said, “You’ll get attached too fast,” or “He’s too damaged,” or “He’ll never fully recover.”
Because this dog taught me something I’ll carry forever:
When you give a broken animal a second chance, you don’t just save them.
You heal a part of yourself too. 🐾🤍

10/14/2026

Does anyone have a quiet Australian shepherd? Or do yours also talk, moan, groan and bark?

10/14/2026

He’s fighting for his life… please keep him in your prayers. 🙏💔

10/14/2026

I don’t remember my name anymore. On the streets they just called me “that sick one” or “the one with the lump.” I was already broken when I found him.
It was raining the night I heard his tiny cries behind the old fish market. A cardboard box half-torn, water pooling around it. Inside was this little ball of fur — eyes barely open, belly swollen with hunger, too weak to even lift his head. No mother. No one. Just like me once.
Something inside my chest cracked open. I was hurting already — the sore on my neck had started growing weeks earlier, hot and tight. But I lay down in that dirty water and pulled him against my body with my front paws. I licked the rain from his face until he stopped shaking. That night I decided: if I had to die on these streets, at least this little one would not die alone.
I named him Light in my heart. Because that’s what he became.
Every day after that, I fought harder. The lump on my neck grew heavier, pulling my head to one side, making it hard to swallow, hard to turn when danger came. My eyes started going cloudy — the world became shadows and shapes. But I still hunted for food. I still let him eat first. When he was too small to keep up, I carried him in my mouth or walked slower so he could stay beside me. At night I curled my whole body around him on whatever blanket or cardboard we found, pressing him against the side of my neck that still had some warmth left.
He never minded the lump. He would rest his small head right against it, like it was the safest place in the world. Sometimes I think he was protecting me back.
The streets tried to finish us many times. Drunk men kicking at us. Cars that didn’t slow down. Other dogs who saw an easy target in a sick older stray with a puppy. I fought them all with whatever strength I had left. Because he needed me. And strangely, needing him kept me alive longer than I should have lasted.
Then the kind humans came.
They smelled of soap and something gentle. They spoke in low voices instead of shouting. One woman knelt down and cried when she saw how I positioned myself between her and the puppy — even though standing hurt so much. They didn’t grab or drag. They lifted us carefully, wrapped us in soft towels, and put us in a warm metal box that moved. For the first time in our lives we were not running.
Now we are here.
This place has clean water in a shiny bowl that never runs out. It has a dark soft blanket that doesn’t smell of garbage or rain. It has high metal walls with bars so no one can hurt us while we sleep. Volunteers come every day and speak our names softly. They bring food that doesn’t make our stomachs twist. They touch us with hands that don’t hit.
The doctors in white coats looked at my neck and my eyes for a long time. They spoke words I didn’t understand, but I felt the sadness in their voices. The lump is big now — bigger than it should ever be. It has taken pieces of me. My eyes see almost nothing anymore. They say there may not be many more sunrises for me.
But they smile when they look at Light. They say he is strong. They say he can still have a whole life of green grass and warm laps and toys that squeak. They say someone might want both of us… or at least him.
Every evening when the lights in the long hallway of cages grow dim, Light still does the same thing he did on the streets. He climbs onto the blanket, walks in a small circle, and rests his head exactly where he always has — against my chest, right beside the heavy, hurting place on my neck. His little body rises and falls with each breath, warm and trusting. Even here, where we are safe, he chooses me.
I can’t see his face clearly anymore, but I feel every movement. I feel the way his tail sometimes thumps against the blanket when a volunteer walks by. I feel the way he presses closer when I shift in pain. He doesn’t know the words the doctors use. He only knows that I am still here, and that is enough for him.
Sometimes in the quiet I wonder what will happen. Will someone open a door to a real home and take us both? Will they let me stay with him until the end, so he doesn’t have to learn what alone feels like again? Or will kind hands carry me away one day while he is sleeping, and he will wake up to an empty blanket?
I don’t know.
But I know this: even with a body that is failing and eyes that can no longer clearly see the world, I am richer than I ever was on the streets. Because this little soul still chooses to lay his head on me every single night. Because someone finally saw us. Because for the first time, we are not fighting to survive tomorrow — we are simply allowed to exist today.
If you are reading this, please look at us. Really look. Not at the lump or the cloudy eyes or the cage bars. Look at the way we are still together. Look at the way love can exist even when everything else has been taken away.
We were never just strays.
We were a family that refused to break.
And we are still here.

10/14/2026

My little girl who is 15 years old wanted to go to the park today, she's a bit too old so I carried her down there, when we got there this is how she sat enjoying the sunshine.

10/14/2026

10/14/2026

How Cute Is Your Australian Shepherd Show Us With A Picture 🙃♥️