What My Childhood Dog Meant to Me

There’s something about a childhood dog that sticks with you — not just in memories, but in the way you see the world.

Ours is more than just a pet. She is part of the family. She was there for the first days of school, the scraped knees, the thunderstorms, the lazy Sundays. She knew the sound of my backpack hitting the floor and always came running, tail wagging like I was the best part of her day.

See this video circa 2011 of me terrorizing poor Roxy:

She’s patient in a way I didn’t understand until I got older.

She’d let my younger siblings tug on her ears or fall asleep beside her without flinching. She seemed to know when to be gentle and when to bring the chaos, usually in the form of muddy paws and torn-up tennis balls.

I didn’t realize at the time just how much she anchored our home until I left for college and learned what life was like without listening to the constant pitter-patter of her feet as she walks down the hallway. She’s been there through every chapter: growing up, growing apart, growing back together. Always constant, always present. There’s a comfort in that kind of loyalty that’s hard to put into words.

As she has gotten older, slower, quieter, we tried to return the love she’d given us for so long. It was hard. But it was also a reminder of what she’d taught us without ever saying a word — about presence, patience, and the kind of love that doesn’t need to be loud to be lasting.

She was my first real lesson in unconditional love. And in some ways, I think she helped raise me.