She Chose Me

Things Dogs Teach Us About Trust

Excerpt from December 11, 2025 journal entry

It feels like Posey is withdrawing again.

She hides a lot.

Sometimes I don’t see her for hours. Then Parker will decide it’s time to play, and suddenly she comes alive. They tear through the house like a couple of maniacs, and for a little while she looks completely carefree.

And I love to watch her run. She’s fast. Very fast.

Then she disappears again.

It’s OK.
I really like her.

I confess, though, that I have mixed emotions when she takes Parker’s spot beside me on the couch. Parker couldn’t care less. He’ll just find another place to flop. But he and I have our little routine. He curls up beside me while I watch TV, and we’ve been doing it for years.

Then Posey squeezes herself into that same spot.

And honestly? For a second my heart aches for Parker, but then I realize: I love it.
Because she chose me.

People were not kind to her before she came here.

I don’t know all the details.
I just know that she came into foster care scared of a lot of things.

Her foster parents helped her a lot, and I am grateful for it.
Who knows what they had to deal with?

So the fact that she trusts any human is remarkable.
The fact that she trusts me is humbling.

When she first arrived at the house, it felt like she knew she was home…
Like she made up her mind this house and this person and these annoying brothers were hers.
That was fine by me.

It’s a different relationship than the boys.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my boys fiercely.

Since the day I brought them home as little terrorist puppies, they have been hugged, kissed, squished, babied, and generally inconvenienced by my affection.

They have never known anything different.

They don’t do a single thing I ask them to do.
Not one thing.

But they trust me completely.

They don’t know my name.
They don’t understand most of the words coming out of my mouth.

But they know my voice.
They know the tone and timber of it.

They know my face.
They know when I’m sad.
When I’m happy.
When I’m frustrated.
When I’m about to leave the house.

And I know them too.

I know when Parker’s feelings are hurt,
and the ear-piercing bark he does when he is afraid to walk on the hardwoods.
“Do you need helps?” I say as I gently grab his collar. “I helps,” and roll him like a bowling ball to the next rug.

I know when Deacon’s arthritis is bothering him even when he tries to hide it.
I know the difference between his “It’s 7:15 PM and I want an escort to bed” bark,
and his “I need you to escort me to the couch so Parker & Posey won’t bite my tail” bark.

I know when Deacon is about to throw-up by the look on his face.
And I know when Parker spins like a tornado he is s-u-p-e-r happy.

We have an entire language, and almost none of it involves words.

Posey is learning that language.
And I’m learning hers.

Slowly.
Carefully.
On her terms.

And I’m OK with that.

Because maybe that’s what love does,
It waits.

Until she feels safe to rest…
Safe to trust…
Safe to be known.

Deacon and Parker have always known that. I can grab them in a big bear hug and squish their faces with kisses.

I can’t with Posey - and it hurts my heart.
Because that means that somewhere along the way, someone taught her hugs weren’t safe.
And that being startled means you need to defend yourself.
Bless her heart.

She’s learning though.

One belly rub at a time.
One couch cuddle with me at a time.

And I get to be part of that.

What a wonderful responsibility to be trusted by something once wounded.
Some creatures just need a little room to learn they are safe.
Even if safe means sitting directly on my head or punching me in the face with her paw.

I’m grateful for my dogs and the lessons they teach.