Her name was Lioness. I named her that because she had a mane worthy of a National Geographic documentary. Her fur was an artistic mix of brown and orange, and her eyes—big, warm, and brown—were full of kindness. She was the queen of the neighborhood, the guardian of our block, and my personal little advisor.
Lioness wasn’t mine, but she wasn’t anyone else’s either. She lived in a yard on the next street over, but she made her daily rounds around our block. I would always wait for her with a little treat—chicken cutlets, meatballs, sandwiches. Mom was a great cook, and I had a heart perfectly suited for distributing animal protein.
Lioness was gentle, but I had a little fear instilled by my mom: “Don’t touch dogs! They have diseases! They bite! You’ll never wash clean again!” So I loved her from a safe distance. That is, until the day Lioness had puppies.
That’s when I mustered up all my courage and went to meet the babies. I lay down next to them in their little pen, petting and kissing each one like tiny, furry pastries. Lioness didn’t say a word. She just looked at me with a calm that clearly said, “You belong to the pack.” Until Mom showed up and found me curled up in the pen. She scolded me, mentioned rabies, tetanus, the whole veterinary medical handbook, and dragged me out like a shameful suitcase.
But it didn’t matter: my love for dogs was cemented.
Years went by, but my canine habits stuck. I never had a dog of my own—anxiety always got in the way with questions like: What if I can’t walk him enough? What if I’m not a good enough mom? What if my worries stress him out?
Instead, I became a weekend mom to other people’s dogs. I am the official babysitter for two little miracles, and honestly, I can’t tell anymore who humanized whom—me or them.
One day, I had a long trip ahead, so I packed a few sandwiches to keep hunger at bay. But I came across some hungry dogs in a parking lot, and I did what any responsible heart would do: I gave them everything. I satisfied my own hunger with a pack of gum, and I didn’t feel a bit deprived.
And yes, when I meet someone on the street, it comes naturally to greet the dog first, then the human. The dog is the one who looks at me with absolute trust, who has no hidden agenda, and who reads my emotions better than a psychologist. People say we should care most about other people. I say… if we treated people even half as kindly as we melt for dogs, the world would be a very different place.
Until then, I remain the girl who once slept in a pen with Lioness’s puppies, dreaming that one day I’ll become a mom—maybe to a child, but definitely to a dog.