It’s that fresh smell of bean paste soup, an essence I can’t experience anywhere else no matter how hard I try, that sets apart my grandmother’s tiled-roof house in the countryside of Korea. On one side of her 150 acre plot, she grew peppers, spinach, and persimmons. On the other side, I had free access to my personal petting zoo. Free range chickens pecked at grain, goats butted heads, and stray dogs begged for scraps.

My grandmother was a creative woman; she took full advantage of my limited time with her to fill my head with fantastical (if not overtly false) stories. Her tale of boars coming down from the mountains to snatch her livestock for food never rang true. Thinking her woes of fierce tusks and bloody carcasses were only trying to scare me, I let her warnings fall on deaf ears- until the day the evidence was right in front of me.

When I stepped outside that morning, my eyes were immediately drawn to a bloody Jindo puppy. Never had I been so traumatized. There was a puddle of blood surrounding the animal and the putrid odor hit me hard. My grandmother, standing behind me, quietly stated “I told you so.” I was torn over how to react: part of me wanted to run away, the better part wanted to help. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and faced the horrible scene. This wasn’t a bedtime story anymore and a magic wand wouldn’t make the puppy better.

I approached the whimpering pup and slowly extended my hand. To my surprise, he responded calmly to my touch, letting me carefully wrap him in a towel and prepare a bath. When the warm water hurt his cuts, it wasn't the high-pitched yelp that drove me crazy, but his penetrating eyes crying for help. With such weary and trusting eyes locked on mine, I knew I had become his protector.

From that day on, I woke up every morning ready to care for my ward. I prepared stew from leftovers, cleaned his wounds and applied ointment, and made sure to properly exercise him to rebuild his strength. Over time I became attached to his floppy ears and happy disposition. Then something struck me- my puppy wasn't dependent on me, I was the one who depended on him. When performing a simple chore, like taking out the garbage, I’d always hope for his eager panting and wagging tail when I returned. Whenever I walked through the door, sure enough, there he was waiting right where I left him. Because of his loyalty, I called him Winn-Dixie, after the pet who shared a similar past. Transforming him from a weak stray to my confidante, I was proud of the deep-seated trust and affection we shared.

Before I met Dixie, I was incredibly shy, preferring to stuff my face in a pillow when facing emotional trauma. After he came into my life, I learned to step away from the stress and use the affection of a four-legged creature to untangle my mind. Because of Winn-Dixie, I learned to be selfless and, although he is no longer with me, the compassion I have acquired from caring for his hurt has never left me.