Nine years ago, I fell in love with a breed.

Dogo Argentinos.

Living in the Polish Highlands (Podhale), the nearest breeder was in Silesia.

They had puppies.

I was 20, and I dreamed of owning a big white dog.

 

I called them, arranged a visit.

Hours in the car, full of excitement.

You know that feeling? That childlike joy—pure and weightless.

 

After a long talk with the breeder and meeting the puppies’ parents, I realized...

a Dogo Argentino wasn’t for me.

Honestly, I still think so—even with more experience and a different life now.

 

It was a very mature decision for a 20-year-old with a big dream.

But sometimes we’re just not meant for something—and that’s okay.

 

 

 

Back home in the rocky hills of Podhale, I still knew one thing:

I wanted a dog.

 

So I thought—I’ll just go to the shelter.

And that, my friend, is what I call “the madness.”

I didn’t overthink it.

I waited a week and a half—until the next weekend.

 

At the end of August 2007, on a Friday, I called the Nowy Targ shelter, told them I’d come, and drove over right after work.

 

It wasn’t like today—there were no constant social media updates with dogs’ photos or detailed online ads.

Back then, I figured it was best to find a small dog.

 

Yes, I know—solid logic, especially when I’d just been dreaming of a 60-kg molosser.

 

So there I was: outgoing, confident, stepping out of my sleek convertible, wearing high heels.

Mrs. Pawluśkiewicz, who ran the shelter, looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

 

Honestly? I’d look at myself the same way.

I had to change my shoes just to survive the uneven concrete.

 

And then—hundreds of kennels.

Hundreds of barking dogs.

 

You know… it’s a terrible feeling.

When you're used to a different life and suddenly you're faced with something you don’t fully understand.

 

We walked aisle after aisle.

So many eyes.

So many faces.

 

Unless you’ve stood in a shelter yourself—you can’t imagine it.

 

 

 

After two rows, I saw what I thought was the perfect dog.

Small, white, fluffy.

But the shelter manager said we’d go through to the end—and then decide.

 

So we kept walking.

More cages.

More barking.

The smell, the sounds.

 

Finally—the last kennel.

 

I was relieved. I thought we’d head back now.

 

And there, hanging onto the bars with both front paws—was him.

A big, brownish-grey dog, covered in dreadlocks, nose scraped and bleeding.

 

He was smiling.

 

I walked up to him—and he grabbed me with both paws.

Like he wanted a hug.

 

And something in me broke.

Because when you’re 20, logic isn’t your strongest suit.

 

There are moments when your heart just knows.

 

The lady took him out of the kennel.

 

I swear—he was the ugliest dog in the entire shelter.

Crooked teeth. Matted fur. Dreadlocks. Bleeding nose.

 

And when he walked onto the grass, he peed like a female.

 

I must’ve looked stunned.

I’d expected a macho dog.

 

But my only thought was:

“It’s fine. I’ll take care of a girl too.”

 

I signed the paperwork.

Shoved this massive dog into my convertible—barely fit.

And was told I could return him within a month if anything went wrong.

 

Oh, and by the way—Rasta was actually a boy, two years old.

He got his name because of his matted dreadlocks.

 

When I got to my mom’s house and let him into the garden,

she looked at him and said:

“I’ve never seen a dog so ugly, dirty, and neglected.”

 

She wasn’t wrong.

 

I said:

“We’ll just give him a haircut. He’ll be fine.”

 

Turns out, no groomer wanted to try.

His fur was too matted for clippers, and he squirmed too much for scissors.

 

But then—a neighbor who shears sheep stepped in.

Yes.

He sheared my dog like a sheep.

 

And underneath?

 

A huge, grey dog with skin rashes and pressure sores.

 

 

 

Now… I won’t lie to you.

 

It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows.

It wasn’t "love forever" right away.

 

I won’t tell you how many times I cleaned up messes.

Or how many shoes died in battle.

 

I won’t pretend I didn’t think about giving him back—

because I did.

 

Rasta didn’t know anything.

 

He’d never been in a house.

Didn’t know how to go potty outside.

He was terrified of stairs, doors, cars.

He had panic attacks.

 

I won’t tell you how many times he messed up the car.

But I’ll tell you this:

 

I changed the car. Not the dog.

 

My Rasta.

 

You know how much work I put into him every day?

Six years. Hours a day.

Six long years before he stopped trying to run away.

 

Every day, I learned more—about him and myself.

 

He turned out to be proud, stubborn, entitled—and clever.

Typical molosser.

 

You talk to him? He thinks about whether you’re right.

And maybe he’ll obey. Maybe he won’t.

 

I could run two villages without breaking a sweat—because he ran away all the time. Constantly.

 

We had to grow into each other.

I doubted myself as a dog owner.

I’d shout.

He’d pretend not to hear.

 

He’d eat my shoes and give me that “what?” face.

 

It was a comedy.

 

But the truth is—Rasta started all the changes in my life.

 

I left my fiancé.

Changed jobs.

Bought a house with a garden.

Even got a new car.

 

Because of a dog.

 

Because it’s not just the rescue dog’s world that changes.

 

If you’re open—yours will change too.

 

It started off messy.

And now?

 

It’s perfect.

 

Today, Rasta is 12 years old.

He’s seen my children born.

He’s met his buddy—a white stray we rescued from the street earlier this year.

 

Yes.

My white dog dream came true after all.

 

 

 

What can I tell you?

 

How much I’ve learned from him?

 

I can’t even put it into words.

 

Would I want him any different?

 

No.

Because I’ve learned to love him exactly as he is.

 

Big, grey, demanding, stubborn molosser.

My little lap dog.

 

So what if I need to groom him regularly?

So what if he weighs 45 kg and loves rolling in the mud?

 

He’s mine.

 

 

And you ask—would I go to the shelter again?

 

Yes.

 

Because really—

what other answer could there be?