Sean and I just watched my parents’ dogs for a full week. We spent seven nights in my childhood home—our first time sleeping outside our converted van in over a year—taking care of one chronically ill husky, one socially insatiable doodle, and our own sensitive heeler.
The dogs barely saw each other.
Why? Because Scout is still uncomfortable around fellow canines. Because Snort is capital-W Weird—body language as conflicting as our cattle dog’s—and has started fights before. Because Margo… well, let’s be honest, Margo could hang with literally anyone. But she’s the exception.
Mostly, though, because it was easier. We have the resources to set up full separation. All the dogs are able to spend time alone. And I don’t need to be a glutton for punishment.
We walked Snort and Scout together twice. They saw each other here and there through glass doors. It was a far cry from visits earlier in our time together—when I’d have my camera out almost ubiquitously during Christmas week, capturing every second Scout succeeded at something that used to be hard for her—and infinitely more enjoyable. Turns out joy does not need to come tinged with shame.
A few years ago I needed to prove my dog could do certain things. I needed to prove it to others. I needed to prove it to myself.
Today I am sick of proving.
I wondered if it’s because there’s nothing left to prove. We’ve done all we originally set out to do! That’s true—but also not quite right. There’s room to grow. There’s residual insecurity to face. There’s more Scout and I could prove to ourselves and my family and the internet and the ether. But I don’t need to anymore. I sure as hell don’t want to.
My sensitive cattle dog can visit loved ones with us. She can be on the same walk or in the same room as other dogs. She can stay, by herself, for hours in an unfamiliar home. These are valuable skills—I feel peace of mind to have them in our back pocket and pride we worked to get here—but we don’t need to use them daily.
“Just because we can doesn’t mean we should” I whispered to myself years ago, trying to talk my head and heart into relinquishing the weight on my shoulders, more fully accepting my dog, untethering our worth from arbitrary standards. “Just because we can doesn’t mean we should!” I shout at the top of my lungs now.
Here’s how we kept everyone happy and separated:
- My parents’ house has lots of rooms with solid doors. We “crated and rotated” the dogs: Margo and Snort would hang in their bedroom (where they’re used to staying during my parents’ work days) while Scout was free roaming, then Scout would stay in our bedroom while they were.
- On the second day Scout started struggling to settle as deeply inside the house as she usually does in the van. It’s hard to be in a less-familiar environment—and to hear other (scary) dogs interacting with your people just outside the door! So we just… put her out in the van for her solo time instead. The option was available for us. Why add unnecessary stress if we didn’t need to?
- It was also an easy choice because Scout loves hanging in our converted van. We parked it the driveway and plugged into a garage outlet for unlimited power. Full fan and temperature control system!
- We experimented with different walk configurations. Scout and Snort together. Snort and Margo together. Scout on her own. Snort on her own, then Scout on her own, then one-on-one social time with Margo. Snort and Margo together then hanging out with Scout in the yard. Sean and I running just us, then hanging out with Scout in the yard, then walking my parents’ dogs with my niece when she came over later. No two days looked exactly the same.
- We frontloaded fulfillment for everyone in the morning so we could relax later on. That way it didn’t feel like anything was hanging over our heads!
