The book of Kali

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Kali was a mix of pit bull, Labrador, and German shepherd—a strong, smart, and loyal dog. We found her through a family that was moving and couldn’t take her with them. Since she was part pit, most shelters wouldn’t accept her, and the ones that did would likely keep her for a long time before putting her down. We couldn’t let that happen.

We met the family at a local dog park. Kali was shy and scared, but when my son got all over her, she didn’t flinch—just let him hug her, climb on her, and play without a fuss. That was enough to win me over. My wife wasn’t in favor, but she was outvoted 2-1. The family was kind and gave us everything—her food, her toys, her bed, even her leashes. They had clearly loved her, but life had other plans for them.

Bringing Kali home was an adventure. She paced around, sniffing every inch of the house, unsure of her new world. At first, she retreated to corners when things got too loud, but never once did she show aggression. She just needed time. My son, however, acted like she had always been part of the family—hugging her, rolling around on the floor, and sneaking her treats when he thought we weren’t looking.

Kali wasn’t just loving—she was smart. She had a little trick she’d pull with treats. She’d come up, sit perfectly, and give that look—the one that said, I’m such a good girl, don’t I deserve a treat? Of course, we’d give her one. But instead of eating it, she’d trot outside, dig a little hole in the yard, and bury it like treasure. Then, she’d come back inside, sit in the exact same spot, and ask for another one, like she hadn’t just stashed the first. It took us a while to catch on, but once we did, we couldn’t help but laugh.

She was also a creature of habit, especially when it came to walks. She had a whole routine—she’d find you, nudge you a couple of times, and then slowly, deliberately, lead you to where the leash was kept. No barking, no whining, just quiet insistence. Once there, she’d jump in excitement and then wait patiently by the door. If you ignored her for too long, she’d let out a single, dramatic sigh and give you the most disappointed look, as if she couldn’t believe how unreliable her humans were.

But as sweet and playful as she was with us, Kali had another side—she was a hunter. A silent killer. Unlike most dogs that barked at anything that moved, Kali didn’t make a sound. She stalked her prey with patience and precision. Birds, squirrels—if they got too close, she was on them before they even knew what happened.

And then, there was the possum.

It was early morning, still dark outside, when I heard it—a deep rustling behind the storage shed, followed by snarling and thrashing. A full-on brawl was happening in our backyard. By the time I got outside, the fight was over.

Kali emerged from the shadows, dragging her prize—the biggest possum I had ever seen. Her eyes were wild with excitement, her chest heaving. She didn’t bark, didn’t growl. She just stood there, her tail wagging slightly, proud of her victory. The backyard looked like a battleground—broken branches, scattered leaves, signs of a serious fight. But Kali? Not a scratch on her.

She stood there for a moment, looking at me, as if to say, Look what I did. Look what I protected. Then, just like that, she trotted off, satisfied, ready to go back to being the loving, goofy dog we knew.

My wife, who had been hesitant at first, was the last to fall for Kali’s charm. One night, after a long day, she sat on the couch, exhausted. Without a sound, Kali walked over, rested her big head on her lap, and let out a deep sigh. That was it. From then on, Kali wasn’t just “the dog”—she was family.

She had been given a second chance, and in return, she gave us unconditional love, loyalty, and unforgettable memories. We may have saved her, but in many ways, she saved us right back.