An open letter to the overwhelmed new dog owner
In honor of Scout’s fourth gotcha day yesterday, here’s something I wish I could have read in our first year together.
To the guardian who didn’t realize caring for a dog could be so challenging, who feels like maybe you’re in over your head, who isn’t sure where to go from here, who wonders if your companion would be better off with someone else, who feels like a failure because isn’t living with a pet supposed to be good for you,
To myself, four year ago,
I see you. Everything you’re feeling is okay. And you are not alone.
I see you because I was you. Because I still am you, even four years and thousands of hours of training & processing & growth later.
I know how it feels to slump to the floor after a horrible walk and let the tears fall. (And how it feels to hold them back, too, wondering if you’re silly for losing your mind and heart over “just” a dog.)
I know how it hurts to have strangers—and worse, people you consider friends—judging you because their experiences with canines have always been simple and joyful and what must you be doing wrong to make it so hard?
I know what it’s like to question if it’s all your fault, if you’ll ever be able to just enjoy your companion the way you always dreamed, if your standards are too high or your capabilities are too low or if you’re actually just going crazy.
(You’re not going crazy. I promise.)
I see you trying, and holding your breath, and doing your best, and still feeling like it’s not enough and might never be enough and asking how are you going to get through this? And oh, how heartbreaking that this life with your dog has become something to “get through”. It was meant to be golden.
I see you and I am you, and there is nothing wrong with you. The fear, the desperation, the anger, the jealousy, the uncertainty, the resentment, every last emotion coursing through your body is valid and says something about how much you care—about your dog, about your loved ones, about the world around you.
I see you, and it’s going to get better. Maybe not instantly. (Okay, definitely not instantly.) Maybe not easily. (Probably not.) But it will get better.
There are bright days ahead—and yes, they’re hidden in the midst of tough decisions and internalized shame and big emotions that you need to process through, but they’re there. I see them myself now more often than not, even though I used to think they were a fluke of the imagination, a mirage, a tease, something unreachable. But today they are my life.
It will never be seamless. You might always have struggles, your dog might always have struggles, but you will keep growing and someday you’ll look back and say “I cried after all those walks?” with a shake of your head like it was just a bad dream, something fading from your memory, as you blink your eyes open to the new reality ahead.
It is okay to feel what you feel. It is okay to take your time. It’s okay to do what you need to do to take care of yourself so that you can take care of your dog, whatever that means for you.
I see you, and we’re here for you. We’re cheering for you. Hard. We think of you every day, we smile at fellow dog-owner teams on the street in your honor, we turn our faces to the sun and run fingers through soft fur and whisper how proud we are preemptively, how delightful it is to know we aren’t alone on this journey.
It’s okay that it’s hard. You’re not “doing it wrong”. You are facing real challenges—and you are capable of handling them. Of learning from them. Of maybe not loving them… but still being thankful for the ways they’ve changed you deep down.
Drink some chicken soup for the dog owner’s soul—and keep going, at your own pace, whenever you’re ready.
