This is a story I write at the heartfelt request of Greypet.

Putting it into words has cost me health, tears, and more strength than I thought I had.

But the need to share this truth – to show that a deaf dog is not a burden, but a blessing – was stronger than the pain.

 

Albin was everything.

My angel. My light. My sun and my star. My entire world.

 

After our boxer, Bols, passed away, my parents adopted Baton. A month later, I got a call: a 10-month-old deaf boxer needed a temporary home. I said yes without hesitation.

 

 

Through the SOS Boxers Foundation, I adopted him permanently from the animal shelter in Lublin. I fell in love.

Truly, deeply, immediately. When I found out he was deaf, nothing else mattered. I just needed to get him out.

 

 

 

We arrived on a sunny Sunday – August 24, 2008. The shelter was closed, but someone had made an exception. The smell was overwhelming – it was just before cleaning time – but that didn’t matter.

 

The staff seemed surprised anyone wanted that dog. They called him “that ugly deaf one.” They tried to offer me others. But I insisted.

I wanted Albin.

 

And when they brought him out… I wasn’t ready for what I saw.

 

He was skin and bones. Completely overstimulated. Frantic. He couldn’t stand still, couldn’t be touched. They couldn’t even put a harness on him.

It was heartbreaking. I signed the papers and gave them the only money I had – 20 zł. It’s embarrassing to admit, but it’s all I had.

 

We took him home. He smelled awful. We were four people in the car, and at every stop, Albin followed only me.

 

Love at first sight.

 

 

When we arrived home, I was terrified.

He was clumsy, bumping into everything, tripping over his own feet. He didn’t know how to walk or run. He was a mess.

At night, he would wake up screaming – wild, panicked, jumping on cabinets, eyes bloodshot, tongue flailing. It wasn’t just boxer puppy energy. It was something else entirely.

It was madness.

 

But we gave him time. We waited. And slowly, day by day, he began to calm.

After a week – a full night of sleep. No more panic.

 

He started learning how to communicate with us. Every day brought new lessons – for both of us.

I made a conscious decision: I would never give him up. He would be safe. He would be loved.

 

 

A month later, I brought him to live with me. That’s when new challenges started.

 

He had severe separation anxiety. He destroyed furniture, peed indoors – even during short absences. I worked with a behaviorist. I learned. We tried medication.

And we made it through.

On walks, I gave him a normal life – as normal as any hearing dog’s. He stayed close, ran free in safe spaces, fetched, and always watched for my next move.
He read my body, my expressions, even my lips.
He understood me without a single word.

For the first six months, he didn’t tell me when he needed something. I had to guess.
But one day – finally – he asked.
I waved my hand to say, “What do you need?” and he showed me. From that day, he told me everything: when he was hungry, when he wanted to play, when he wasn’t feeling well.

He learned hand signals. He came when called. Sat. Stayed. Lay down. Gave me his paw – one, then the other. He even learned to search for hidden objects. All through gestures.
It was beautiful.

 

We shared seven amazing years.
And I always told him: “You were born under a lucky star – October 4th, 2007 – the feast of Saint Francis of Assisi.”

 

 

He died suddenly on November 1st, 2014.

 

That morning, I was supposed to travel to Warsaw. I take that road often. But that day, I was terrified. I had a bad feeling. I canceled everything.

 

And thank God I did.

 

That was my last day with him. My last hug. The last time I whispered, "I love you" – even though he couldn’t hear it.

He was my everything.

 

I believe nothing happens by chance. I believe he died so I would live – so nothing would happen to me that day. You don’t have to believe it. But I do. And it’s what keeps me going.

 

I’m still grieving. I still can’t look at his photos.

I haven’t found the strength to return to his fanpage – Albin the Deaf Boxer – to show others how beautiful life with a deaf dog can be.

 

Two weeks after his death, a friend quietly sent me a link to another boxer.

White, of course. 10 months old. His name was Roni.

 

I knew right away.

I emailed, called, waited. One month later – on December 4th, 2014 – I drove to Kraków to get him. I adopted him through Jaworznicki Dom Tymczasowy.

 

The stress, the emotions, the grief – it broke me.

But the day of the trip, I felt whole again. Nervous, exhausted, but ready.

 

We returned home past midnight.

I sat with Roni for hours. He didn’t replace Albin. He never will.

But he is Roni. And that’s more than enough.

 

 

Roni is everything Albin wasn’t – not because he’s better, but because he didn’t carry the same scars.

He’s social. He’s confident.

He has helped me meet so many wonderful people – people I couldn’t meet with Albin, who was fearfully aggressive.

 

And Roni… he loves other dogs. He bonded with our mastiff, Bravo. He fell for Amira, the Central Asian beauty. He plays, runs, and yes – even teases the cat. But I know they love each other.

 

Roni takes all my time.

All my attention.

And that’s exactly what I need.

No time to dwell in grief. No time to spiral.

One day, I’ll learn to live with the loss. Until then – Roni fills every moment.

 

 

 

I often joke that Albin sent Roni to me –

a gentler version of himself. Just as young when adopted. Just as white.

But with no trauma. No fear. Just peace.

 

And that… that feels like a gift.

 

Adopting Albin was the best decision of my life.

Adopting Roni was the bravest one.

And if I could – I would adopt again. Deaf or hearing. Broken or whole.

Every dog deserves a chance.

And some… deserve to be heard, even in silence.