Mannix Painting

03/15/2026

Hi everyone… I’m posting with a very heavy heart and hoping for prayers and maybe some guidance.

My 8½-year-old Bull Terrier boy, Spencer, is the absolute center of my world. Last week he started acting off — little things at first — jitters, randomly licking things, leg jerking, a couple vomiting episodes, then a day of diarrhea. I just knew something wasn’t right.

We went to the vet Tuesday and he was diagnosed with polycythemia, which I’ve learned is pretty rare in dogs. His red blood cells, hemoglobin, and hematocrit are all dangerously high. He received fluids and we scheduled an ultrasound.

Yesterday I noticed random bruising on his belly, which scared me even more.

Today’s ultrasound showed two lesions on his right adrenal gland that could potentially be cancer. His blood counts were even higher on repeat labs. Now we’re facing more tests, possible blood/fluid exchange treatments, and a referral to internal medicine to figure out the cause.

I’m posting for two reasons:

1️⃣ Most importantly — please say a prayer for my sweet Spencer.

2️⃣ If anyone has experience with polycythemia or adrenal gland tumors/lesions in Bull Terriers, I would truly appreciate hearing from you.

I’m trying to stay strong for him, but I’m so scared. He means everything to me.

Thank you all for any prayers, advice, or support. ❤️🐾🙏

03/15/2026

Today I went to meet a friend I’ve known for over 20 years. I brought my Pitbull with me.

When I arrived, he looked at my dog and said, “Can you tie him outside? I don’t like Pitbulls.” Then he suggested we go inside and grab a drink.

I just smiled.

I looked down at the dog who trusts me enough to fall asleep on my chest like this, completely safe and completely loved.

So I said, “Let’s catch up another day.”

He looked confused, but I simply walked away, smiling, and headed back home… right where my dog belongs.

Later I sent him a message:
“Our friendship ends today. I can’t stay close to people who judge a dog that only knows how to love.”

Because this Pitbull doesn’t just sleep beside me.
He trusts me with his whole heart.

And I’ll never betray that trust.

🐶💙

03/15/2026

03/15/2026

03/15/2026

The shelter manager stopped us right before we walked into the kennel area and said quietly, “If you take the male out for a walk, don’t shut the door on the female. She’ll panic and could hurt herself trying to reach him.”

We had come to the shelter planning to adopt just one dog. Our farmhouse has a big yard, but like most families, we also have a budget to think about. One dog felt responsible. Manageable.

Then we saw them.

Two stark white Bull Terriers were pressed tightly together in the back corner of a kennel, sitting on a thin blanket against the cold concrete wall. Their muscular, stocky bodies were touching so closely that their unique, egg-shaped heads almost looked like one silhouette with two pairs of dark, triangular eyes.

Their shelter names were Rocket and Pearl.

A volunteer walked over and quietly told us their story. They had already been returned twice—not because they were aggressive. In fact, the staff described them as two of the most affectionate, "clownish" dogs in the building.

The problem was their bond.

If Rocket left the kennel, Pearl would panic. Despite her strong, sturdy frame, she would tremble, cry, and scratch at the door until he returned. And if Pearl disappeared from sight, Rocket would pace restlessly, his heavy tail tucked, acting as if his whole world had just fallen apart.

They weren’t difficult dogs. They were just Powerhouse Best Friends who refused to be apart.

The shelter was running out of space, and staff had started talking about separating them to make adoption easier… even though everyone knew it would break their spirits.

I stood there watching Rocket slowly rest his thick, white head across Pearl’s sturdy shoulder. Both Bull Terriers were trembling slightly, their small, wise eyes watching every person who walked past their kennel—like they knew someone was about to decide their future.

My husband looked at me. Then he looked back at the two frightened Bull Terriers clinging to each other. He didn’t ask about the food budget for two high-energy dogs. He didn’t hesitate.

He just walked over to the wall and picked up two heavy-duty leashes.

We’re not the kind of people who split up a family, he said.

So now our house is a little louder. Our couch belongs to two 60-pound "land sharks" who think they’re tiny lap dogs. Our toy budget tripled because of their powerful jaws. Our bed mysteriously shrank overnight as two muscular white frames took over the center.

And somehow, these two rescued Bull Terriers manage to "trot-trot-trot" behind us into every single room of the house.

But honestly? Bringing both of them home turned out to be the best decision we never planned to make.

03/15/2026

My wife died in February. After forty-two years together, the house suddenly felt empty in a way I had never experienced before.
Everything was quiet.
Too quiet.

My daughter kept telling me I needed something to look after. Someone to keep me company. I kept insisting I was managing just fine.

Truth was, I wasn’t.

One Sunday afternoon I drove to the local shelter. I told myself I was only going to walk through and look around. I had no plans to adopt a dog. I simply didn’t want to spend another afternoon sitting alone in my living room.

As I walked past the kennels, a volunteer approached me.

“He’s been here almost a year,” she said, gesturing toward one of the enclosures. “Older dogs like him tend to get overlooked.”

Inside the kennel sat a Staffordshire Bull Terrier. He was strong and compact, with a short coat and a broad head, and the fur around his muzzle had turned gray with age. His round eyes looked up at me with a soft, almost smiling expression, and his tail wagged slowly the moment I stopped at the gate.

The tag on the gate said he was nine.

“He belonged to an older gentleman,” the volunteer explained quietly. “When his owner passed away, there wasn’t anyone who could take him.”

I stepped closer.

The Staffy stood up and walked toward the front of the kennel, his paws making soft sounds on the floor. He looked up at me with a steady, trusting gaze, like he still believed people were good even after everything.

“Why hasn’t someone adopted him?” I asked.

The volunteer sighed.

“Most people come here looking for puppies. And dogs like him get judged before anyone even meets them. Senior dogs don’t get many chances.”

I crouched down and slipped my hand through the bars.

The dog stepped forward right away and pressed his wide head into my palm, his tail wagging a little faster now, as if he had been waiting a long time for someone to stop.

“How much is the adoption fee?” I asked.

The volunteer smiled faintly.

“For senior dogs,” she said, “we waive it.”

I nodded.

“Good,” I replied. “Because he’s coming home with me.”

That was four months ago.

Now he sleeps beside my bed every night, stretched across the floor like a quiet guard. When I sit in my chair, he leans against my leg and looks up at me with those same soft eyes, like he’s making sure I never feel alone again.

The house still misses her.

And so do I.

But the silence is gone.

Sometimes healing arrives in the form of an old Staffordshire Bull Terrier with a gray muzzle, kind eyes, and a loyal heart that refuses to let you feel alone.

03/15/2026

Last night, while I was serving dinner to my dogs, my boyfriend gave me an ultimatum: “It’s either me or them. I can’t live like this anymore.”

I just froze there, holding Rex’s food bowl, watching my three Black Staffordshire Bull Terrier rescue dogs waiting quietly for their meal, and I swear I felt my heart split in two.

He said, “They’re just dogs. You love them more than you love me.”

Maybe he’s not entirely wrong. I did spend three weekends building custom bunk beds for them—took countless trips to Home Depot too. I did turn the spare bedroom into their safe space. And yes, my day runs around their feeding times and medication schedules.

But what he’ll never understand is why. Max, my Staffordshire Bull Terrier, was rescued from a dumpster, covered in cigarette burns. Daisy, another Staffy, spent years chained outside until her paws were permanently scarred. And Rex, my Staffordshire Bull Terrier, still trembles around men because of what he survived. I made a promise to each of them: they’d never be abandoned again.

My sister calls me crazy. “You’re really choosing Staffy dogs over a relationship? You’ll end up alone with nothing but fur and chew toys.” Even my mom told me to consider rehoming them. But when I was at my lowest—after my divorce, when I couldn’t get out of bed—those Staffies were the only ones who stayed by my side.

I know what the “logical” choice would be. But how can I look into Rex’s Staffy eyes, pull away his blanket, and tell him he’s not worth keeping after everything he’s endured? That wouldn’t just be a choice — it would be a betrayal. 💔

03/15/2026

The world feels heavy right now… so here are some pittie faces to bring you a little joy ❤️_11

03/15/2026

When a three-legged shelter puppy met a tiny kitten who was also missing a leg, it was clear they both felt a little less alone. ❤️

09/01/2024

The heavy downpour caused a nearby river to overflow, sweeping the helpless puppy away in the forceful current.