I have a 2½-year-old puppy named Roach. He’s a mini dachshund—salty as hell, mischievous, stubborn, and full of personality, but he loves people and other animals. Dachshunds are some of the quirkiest little dogs I’ve ever seen.

I don’t really think of myself as Roach’s owner. I’m more like his caretaker… maybe even his guardian.

But the truth is, he’s my best friend.

I got Roach when I finally moved out of the hellscape of my stepdad’s house. I had to move there because of the pandemic—I would have been homeless otherwise. My mom said it was okay for me to stay, but after I became disabled, my stepdad tried to get rid of me almost immediately because I could no longer serve their agenda.

I eventually ended up in low-rent housing in Iola, Kansas. I jokingly call my apartment the Château Deif. It’s not exactly a palace. You could probably say it’s in the rougher part of town.

But Roach is my guardian here. Nothing gets near this place without me knowing about it, because Roach will make sure I do.

Here’s the thing—people don’t usually think a dog can save someone’s life.

But Roach saved mine.

I struggle with crippling depression. Sometimes it gets so bad that I can’t bring myself to get out of bed for days. There are days when it feels almost impossible just to put my shoes on.

But Roach changed that.

Because every day, no matter how I felt, I had to get up for him.

He needed food.

He needed water.

His pee pad had to be changed.

He needed someone to take care of him.

And somehow, by taking care of him, he ended up taking care of me.

Roach means as much to me as my son and my two stepdaughters.

If it weren’t for him, I honestly don’t know if I’d still be on this planet.

He’s my best friend.

Some people say dogs are just animals.

I know better.