It was the spring of 1989, and I was 17 when Princess taught me the lesson that shaped everything I believe about dogs and their place in a kid’s life.
She was never just a dog. She was my compass, my soft place to land.
She was a part of our family — a rough collie with a long, pointy nose as fine as her sense of when I needed her most.
I don’t know exactly when I started to really fall in love with Princess. Maybe it was when I was in my early teens, my brother’s point-and-shoot camera in hand, when she struck pose after pose like she was born for it. I tried so hard to turn a corner and get her in more candid shots, but she somehow sensed me near and was sitting perfectly by the time I emerged.
The day she left
I had to share Princess with my parents and three brothers. I’ve no doubt if one brother ever reads this, he’ll think, “She was my dog.”
And that’s fair.
She belonged to each of us, no one more so than my father, though.
Except for that one day when I knew we shared a little something special. It was that spring of 1989, when I sobbed into my pillow after my first boyfriend dumped me. She nudged the door open with that beautiful snout, padded over and settled beside me like she was saying, I’ve got you. It’s OK.
I got back together with that boyfriend a few months later. Big mistake. He took without consent that one important decision every young woman should get to make on her own.
But one day in our relationship sticks out harder than even that. It was the day Princess ran out into the street and got hit by the milk truck.
Just a dog
He dragged me away from my family and told me to stop crying because she was “just a dog.”
It took another year under his thumb before I realized he wasn’t worth my tears.
Of course that’s a lesson many of us have to learn over and over again. I know I sure as hell do.
The lesson started to cement itself into my brain, though, when Shep came into my life in 2004. A Maremma sheepdog, big and white and born to be a guardian … my guardian.
He had this quiet way of anchoring me, a presence so solid it felt like a shield. He wasn’t loud about it. Like a lot of livestock guardians with a big bark, he was more stoic and watchful, saving his big voice and protection for when they were really needed.
I knew he was there for me in the way he’d sleep in the doorway to my bedroom, the way he’d look at me like we were the only beings in the world in that moment.
Shep showed me what Princess had been trying to teach me all along: Love should never come with conditions and that I am worthy of love.
The magic of dogs
Dogs teach us so much more than we realize in the moment. And for kids, that magic is magnified. They don’t just see a dog as a pet; they see a partner in adventure, a co-pilot in everything from backyard escapades to big, scary emotions. A dog gives a child someone to run with, to laugh with, to talk to when no one else will listen.
A furry neck to cry into when the moments hurt.
Dogs teach kids about loyalty, love and loss. They help them understand that joy and sorrow are two sides of the same coin, and both are part of a life well-lived. They show kids what it means to have a friend who doesn’t judge, who doesn’t hold grudges, who just shows up, day after day, ready to love them no matter what.
If you’re lucky — if your kid is lucky — they’ll have their own Princess or Shep to teach them these lessons. Because as long as you have a dog, you have someone.
And when you’re a kid navigating a big, confusing world, that someone makes all the difference.
Another book
That’s why I’m creating Tails of Adventure Dogs … and the Kids Who Love Them. Because I know firsthand how much these bonds shape us. This coffee-table book will celebrate the magic of kids and their dogs—their partners in crime, their safety nets, their best friends.
Limited to one child, up to 12 years old, and one dog, these half-hour sessions are designed to capture the spirit of your child’s relationship with your dog.
Spots are limited. If your child has a four-legged best friend, let’s create something unforgettable.
