The Full Story: Grandpa

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I met Grandpa by chance.

I was hiking near Roseburg when I got a call from a rescue I had just signed up to foster for—All Points West Rescue, based out of Colorado at the time. They asked if I could help with a dog who had landed on a farm just outside of town. Normally, this would’ve been impossible. Roseburg is over two hours from where I live now. But that day, by pure coincidence, I was already there.

So, I said yes.

When I arrived at the farm, I had Spot with me. The property was full of chickens—everywhere. And standing there, right in the middle of it all, was this older German Shorthaired Pointer. If you know the breed, you know chickens are basically their worst nightmare. But Grandpa just stood there, confused, tired, and out of place.

The man who found him told me what he knew. Grandpa’s owner had passed away. He’d been passed to a relative along with his dachshund sibling, and when they no longer wanted the dogs, they were let loose into the woods. They never found the little dog. Grandpa somehow made his way to this farm.

They couldn’t keep him. So, they called the rescue. And then they called me.

I took him home.

From the very first moment, Grandpa was… a lot. He marked everything. The walls. The floors. The corners. Everything. He could barely get up the stairs. His coat was thick, coarse, and clearly meant for living outdoors—which isn’t kind to a short-haired dog in Oregon. He moved slowly and stiffly, like his body had forgotten what comfort felt like.

And yet—somehow—he was the funniest dog I had ever met.

He was uncoordinated. A little clumsy. Full of this sweet, awkward energy that felt like an old soul learning how to relax again. He loved balls with a passion that bordered on obsession. Tennis balls, apples, ornaments—if it was round, it was a ball. And if it was a ball, it was the most important thing in the world.

But more than that, Grandpa loved. Freely. Without conditions. Without holding back. He loved my dogs. He loved people. He loved being near you. He was the biggest snuggler, the kind of dog who leaned all the way into affection like he’d been waiting a lifetime for it.

We had him for a while—long enough to nurse him back to health, to make countless vet visits, to watch his coat transform into something soft and shiny, to see him run again, to watch him tackle the stairs without hesitation. He became housebroken. He became comfortable. He became himself.

And then we did what fosters are supposed to do.

We found him a home.

That lasted about a week.

He came back with the explanation that he was “too neurotic” and “too obsessed with balls.” Which, if you’ve ever met a German Shorthaired Pointer, feels almost funny in hindsight. So, we took him back, no questions asked, and continued sharing his story—his quirks, his humor, his heart—determined to find him the right place.

Somewhere along the way, we realized something quietly devastating and beautiful at the same time.

Maybe he was already home.

We adopted him. Official paperwork and all. Grandpa was ours. And we loved him deeply—more than I can fully explain even now. I don’t know that I’ll ever have another dog like him. His spirit was infectious. He forgave easily. He loved endlessly. He had the memory of Dory—forgetting things almost as quickly as they happened—but somehow never forgot how to love.

But life is complicated. And sometimes love isn’t enough to make something safe.

After a serious altercation with our resident dog, Spot, it became clear that our home—especially with little ones on the way—was not the safest environment for Grandpa. Making the decision to rehome him again was gut-wrenching. It felt like failing him, even though I knew we were trying to do what was best.

And then, something right happened.

We found the perfect family. Truly perfect. They loved him instantly and completely. They gave him more time, more patience, and more care than I could have realistically offered at that stage of life. Grandpa moved to Washington, where he spent the rest of his years camping, traveling, being outside, and soaking up every bit of love he deserved.

He lived a full, happy life.

And still, when he passed, I felt a hole open up in my heart that I didn’t know how to fill.

For the last year, I carried this quiet ache—the sense that I was supposed to do something more, something meaningful, but I couldn’t quite name it. I’d been sitting on the idea of Homebound Hound for a long time without understanding what it truly needed to be.

It wasn’t until Grandpa was gone that it became clear.

Homebound Hound is his legacy.

It exists to honor dogs like him—the ones who are overlooked, underestimated, or waiting quietly for someone to really see them. Through partnerships with animal rescues and local photographers, Homebound Hound brings these dogs’ personalities to life, sharing their stories in a way that helps them find the right home. Pacific Hound covers adoption fees and provides gear as a gesture of dignity and care—for dogs still waiting.

This is for Grandpa.
For the impact he had on my life.
And for the impact he’ll continue to have on the lives of dogs and families yet to meet.

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