14/10/2025
I moved to Berlin for work and felt lonely in a new city. One rainy Saturday I wandered into a Tierheim, a German animal shelter. The place surprised me. It was clean and calm. Volunteers knelt by kennels, speaking softly in German and English. A sign on the wall explained that, by law, shelters here do not put down healthy animals. Only if an animal is very sick or dangerous to people can a vet consider euthanasia. Otherwise, every life is protected.
A small dog watched me from the back of a kennel—brown ears, worried eyes. “That’s Momo,” a volunteer said. “He needs time. No rush. He can stay here as long as he needs.” She told me Momo had been found tied to a fence. In other places he might have run out of time. Here, time was the gift.
I sat on the floor. Momo crept forward, tail low. We didn’t do much—just breathing and treats and patience. By the third visit his tail wagged like a tiny flag. “He chooses you,” the volunteer laughed.
The day I took Momo home, the staff handed me a folder with medical records, training tips, and their phone number for questions anytime. As we left, Momo paused at the door, as if to say goodbye to the people who believed he was worth saving.
Now he naps by my desk and greets neighbors like they are old friends. When people ask how we found each other, I say: in Germany, shelters protect life—and that safety gave us a chance to become a family.
