People laugh when they hear me talk about my dogs.
Maybe I get too attached.
Maybe I do.
But if you’ve ever been loved by a good dog, you know exactly what I’m talking about.
Years ago, I had a Mexican gray wolf and Husky mix named Kita.
She was breathtaking. Fierce. Independent. She was the kind of dog that made you feel safe simply because she existed. Unfortunately, that same protective instinct led to an incident at a boarding facility. She went after another dog, the owner stepped in, and was bitten trying to separate them. We were left with two choices: euthanize her or remove her from Montana.
So we chose life.
Through what felt like an underground railroad of dog lovers, Kita made her way to Texas, where she has been spoiled absolutely rotten ever since.
That happened back in 2018.
People would say, “Well…at least she’s still alive.”
They meant well.
But they didn’t understand.
Sometimes grief isn’t about death.
Sometimes it’s about absence.
She wasn’t gone from the world.
She was simply gone from mine.
It took a long time before I could even imagine loving another dog. I actually prayed that if another animal came into my life, I’d have the capacity to love them, not instead of Kita, but differently.
Then Max arrived.
Technically, Max belonged to Derek.
In reality…
Max decided I belonged to him.
He was an incredible German Shepherd. Quiet. Confident. Gentle. Derek had owned him for eight years and had almost never heard him bark.
Then one day Derek was on the phone with me when someone knocked on my door.
One bark.
One enormous, deep, earth-shaking bark.
Derek nearly jumped out of his skin.
“What was THAT?”
“That,” I said, “was Max.”
Apparently strangers at my front door were worth speaking up about.
At night, Max didn’t sleep across the room.
He spooned me.
He rode everywhere with me.
And whenever my ex-husband came around, Max transformed into a completely different dog. Growling. Barking. Throwing every ounce of himself toward the window as if to say, “Absolutely not.”
Dogs don’t read résumés.
They read people.
A few months after Derek retired from the Marine Corps and moved to Montana, Max passed away.
I’ve always wondered if he’d simply decided his work was done.
Dad was finally home.
His person had someone else to stand watch now.
Today, our home belongs to Jake and Lady.
Jake is a Catahoula who somehow manages to act like he’s been unfairly accused of every crime since 1997 while simultaneously being the most stubborn, mischievous creature God ever created.
He’s convinced he’s innocent.
He’s usually not.
But oh, does that boy love his people.
Then there’s Lady.
My English Chocolate Lab.
She is absolutely her mama’s dog.
She sleeps on my side of the bed.
Lays beside me whenever she can.
Follows me from room to room.
She adores Derek.
She thinks Russell exists primarily to throw tennis balls until one of them collapses from exhaustion.
She’ll happily lean against Trinity for endless ear scratches.
She loves all of us.
But I’m her person.
And every single time I come home, whether I’ve been gone fifteen minutes or six hours, you’d think I’d just returned from a five-year expedition across Antarctica.
Tails wagging.
Whole bodies wiggling.
Smiles so big they can barely contain themselves.
No resentment.
No keeping score.
No pretending they aren’t excited.
Just pure joy because someone they love walked back through the door.
Maybe that’s why dogs are such extraordinary companions.
Every one of them has loved me differently.
Kita was my warrior.
Max was my guardian.
Max (second photo) is almost the opposite energy. His eyes are incredibly soft. He has that classic German Shepherd expression that says, “I’m watching everything, but I’m not worried unless you’re worried.” Knowing the story about him spooning you and only barking when it mattered makes that expression even more fitting. He looks like a dog who didn’t need to make a scene to be a protector.
Jake is my lovable rascal.
Lady is my shadow.
None replaced the one before.
Each simply found a new place inside a heart I wasn’t sure had room again.
And somehow…
It always did.
Every dog I’ve ever loved has watched over me in a different way. One stood between me and danger. One stood beside me in silence. One makes me laugh when life gets heavy. One simply reminds me that I’m never alone.
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