Overcoming My Fear of Dogs: A Personal Journey of Loss and Healing

Our aging rat-terrier mix, Rico, seems to sense that his final days are approaching. At night he carefully climbs the stairs and scratches at our closed bedroom door, waiting for one of us to let him in. He’ll follow us into the room, then sit on the rug and stare quietly into the air or into our faces. Often he looks confused, as if he’s forgotten what just happened — much like I do at times. Rico’s hearing and eyesight are fading, and like me, he has grown old; his muzzle is white, mine is turning gray. My family often remarks that we look like kindred spirits. Sometimes, we shuffle down the stairs together, both favoring an aching knee.

He won’t be here forever — probably not much longer. And yet, despite caring for him, I realize I have never allowed myself to fully love Rico. I wish I could explain why my heart stays closed. Maybe it's time I finally try.

Childhood and the First Dog

I grew up in Iowa in a rented farmhouse, one of the Corn Belt's endless fields stretching outside. My father had just left the Marine Corps to pursue writing, but that morning he came into the kitchen red-faced and shouting. He tied our big German shepherd—named Gunny, short for Gunnery Sergeant—to a rope and dragged him out across the frozen pasture. Then came two shots, and Gunny never returned. I will never forget that dog’s terrified, confused expression as he followed my father out of sight . He had been a bundle of joyous energy, tail wagging as if to say he was always happy to be with us. Losing him felt like losing a friend, maybe even a family member. Perhaps that morning I learned the first lesson of my life: sometimes love brings pain, so maybe it was safer to keep my distance.

Gunny's loss stayed with me in ways I did not fully understand at the time. He had been my first real pet and a faithful companion. That two-shot farewell was my introduction to grief. Later studies would note that dogs often truly become part of the family, which helps explain why this loss felt so deep. From that day on, I started building walls around my feelings. I was only a child, but already I believed that to avoid suffering, perhaps I should never get too close.

Lost Canines of Childhood

After Iowa, our family moved to another house with a pool and pastures, and the landlords even left us with three dogs: Duke, Duchess, and Robin. Two were big German shepherds and the third was a sleek black dog. These dogs became our playmates. They bounded through the woods with my brother and me, laid at our feet during cartoons, and watched for us at every window when storms blew in. They felt like family. But one day we packed up and drove away from that house. I remember the three dogs pressed against the station wagon windows as we left. I think we all wondered why we were abandoning them.

The next year, in New Hampshire, we got a gentle golden retriever named Steagle. Steagle was big, long-haired, and kind; we swam with him in the lake and ran with him through the pines. When the Vietnam War was on TV in the evenings and bombs fell on a screen half my size, I found comfort in Steagle’s warmth. But one winter morning, Steagle fell ill. My parents took him to the vet for an expensive operation we could barely afford. Afterward, the vet left a surgical drain in Steagle’s neck, a dark hole taped to his throat. I couldn’t bear to look at it. It reminded me of my friends’ father who lay dying of cancer, the hole in his side and the plastic bag collecting his life. A few days later, Steagle went outside and never came back. I finally understood a terrible truth: if love ends in loss, maybe it's safer not to love at all.

Puppy Tragedy

By the time I was thirteen, we lived in a tough mill town in Massachusetts. My mother worked long hours, and I became a protector at home. We had two dogs then—sisters named Sonny and Cher, part collie, part shepherd. We loved them so much that when they each had nine puppies, we set up nests in the living room and took turns caring for them. My mother even bought special puppy formula and rubber nipples from the vet so the babies could eat. For a week, I felt a kind of happiness I had never known. I sat on the floor with each puppy in my hand, feeding them from a bottle, and they would curl up and sleep in my lap when they were full.

Then those precious babies got sick. Our yard turned to muddy slush as winter thawed. Their bellies swelled painfully. We rubbed their tiny bodies and even tried the vet’s suggestion—using a lubricated hairpin to help them go to the bathroom. Their tiny keens of pain filled the living room all day. One by one, they died in our arms. Their cries stopped all at once, leaving our house unbearably quiet. I have never forgotten the weight of those nineteen little bodies in my hands, nor the lesson I told myself afterwards: to protect my heart, I would no longer waste love on dogs.

Closing My Heart to Dogs

After that night, more dogs came into our lives—Dirt, Dodo, and Oblio—but I no longer saw them as companions, only as symbols of pain. I was the oldest son now, determined to protect my family. My sister had been attacked, my brother had been hurt, and I focused on their safety. Dogs, I decided, were liabilities or reminders of loss. I would save my love for people only. I built a wall around my feelings so high that dogs became invisible to me.

Accident and Guilt

When I was nineteen, I accidentally ran over our old dog Dodo. He was a strange little fellow—short legs, floppy ears, white fur with brown patches. That day, backing the car out of the driveway, I lost control and heard a sickening thump. Dodo crawled from under the tire, confused. I rushed to him, panic rising. He had tumors; we already knew he was dying. A week later, I took him to the vet to end his suffering. My girlfriend of the time sat beside me as I carried Dodo into the exam room. When the doctor injected him, Dodo looked up at me with trusting, frightened eyes. I could hardly breathe. My hands shook as he took his last breath. That afternoon, I cried harder than I had in years. I felt like the worst kind of person: someone who had betrayed the trust of a gentle creature who loved me unconditionally. After that day, something inside me locked up even tighter. I told myself: no more dogs, for my sake and theirs.

Avoiding All Dogs

For many years after that, dogs were invisible to me. I would pass them on the street or see them in friends' yards, but I pretended they didn't exist. I knew they were everywhere, but in my world they might as well have been telephone poles. I didn’t bother to pet them or acknowledge them. I believed dogs were capable of too much pain. My life became about avoiding hurt, and I shielded myself. They served a purpose for others, but I had none for them.

A Rescue Dog Enters the Family

Two decades later, I was a husband and father in the suburbs, living in a house my brother and I built. Our children—Austin, Ariadne, and Elias—were happy, well-loved kids who begged for a dog. My wife, Fontaine, had promised them a pet long ago. At first, I resisted. Even though we had given our kids a plush toy dog to enjoy on Christmas morning, the thought of bringing a real dog into my life made me uneasy. A year and a half passed, and then Fontaine surprised me: “We got a dog,” she said on the phone. I was stunned. My first reaction was panic and disappointment—another thing I thought I’d have to love. But we had promised our kids, so I reluctantly agreed: we now had a dog.

Reluctant Dog Parent

I named him Rico and brought him home. He was a small terrier mix, gentle and well-behaved. My children adored him immediately; I, however, felt nothing at first. In fact, I found myself annoyed by his very presence. I scolded him for minor missteps and even held his nose to accidents on the floor. One day, my son quietly said, “Dad, look how cute Rico is.” I muttered, “Yes, I see how cute he is,” but I admitted I felt nothing. “I’m dead inside,” I blurted out. Suddenly everyone looked at me with alarm. I realized how much they wanted me to love Rico, and how ashamed I was of the coldness in my own voice.

Still, Rico tried. He would snuggle up on the sofa with us while we watched movies, even on my lap. He’d bring his wet nose to my face, looking for affection. I would pet him, telling myself I should love him, I should. But inside I felt like a fraud. Each gentle pat was forced, and each sniff from him made me feel like a bully.

Breaking Point

One warm summer evening, we were walking in town as a family. The sky was golden, the shops were busy, and Rico ambled happily on his leash. A man ahead was holding a bag—perhaps leftover food or snacks—and Rico spotted it. He tugged toward the man, and I panicked. “Rico! No!” I yelled, and before I knew it my foot had swung and hit Rico in the rump. Rico yelped and stopped in his tracks. My wife and kids gasped. The man smiled apologetically; he had just been about to toss Rico a scrap.

My heart sank. In that moment I realized my anger had come from fear: fear that Rico might demand something I felt I couldn’t give. The ride home was tense. My wife and children scolded me—and justly so. Inside, I was furious at myself and deeply ashamed. I had become the very man I had always hated. That night, when Rico was alone in the den, I knelt beside him, stroking his head. Through tears, I whispered, “I’m sorry I kicked you. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault you’re a dog.” My family walked in on me crying on the floor with Rico, and I felt exposed, but I could not stop. Each tear was in part sorrow for Rico, and in part a reckoning with years of hidden grief.

A Small Dog Makes a Difference

Around that time, my daughter Ariadne moved home for a while during her college break. She brought with her a tiny rescue Chihuahua named Romy. Romy was a fragile little thing with big curious eyes and perked ears. She ran around our house with boundless energy and sometimes barked at things we couldn’t even hear.

I found myself smiling whenever Romy jumped into my lap or chased a squeaky toy. One afternoon while I was reading the news, Romy climbed onto my lap and settled against my legs. I felt a warmth in my chest I hadn’t felt in years. Watching that tiny creature trust me and peacefully rest in my arms, I realized something: perhaps it was possible to start opening my heart to dogs again, after all.

The Forgotten Walks Home

One late fall day, Fontaine let Rico out to do his business, and I hurried to finish an errand inside. Minutes turned to hours, and Rico still wasn’t back. My chest tightened. I called, “Rico! Come home!” I searched our yard and the neighboring roads, calling and whistling. The sky darkened. Fear from those long-ago nights crept into me — had I lost him for good this time?

Finally, I returned home to an empty silence. Then I saw him: Rico, calmly sitting on our porch, his tail wagging the moment he heard me approach. Relief and joy washed over me. I ran to him and opened the door. Rico padded in and looked up at me expectantly, as if to say, “I knew you’d come.” He had found his way home on his own. In that instant, something inside me shifted. Rico trusted I would find him, and I realized how very much I needed him — perhaps even he needed me.

The Healing Power of Dogs

I’ve learned that I’m not the only one who finds dogs transformative. Studies have shown that dogs often become like family members, offering unconditional love that’s hard to describe. Doctors and psychologists note that caring for a dog can literally improve health and mood. Here are some ways dogs can help us:

• Unconditional Companionship: Dogs offer loyalty, affection, and comfort no matter what. This bond can reduce stress and lift our mood
• Physical Activity: Regular walks and playtime with a dog get us moving. Research shows dog owners tend to be more physically active, which boosts heart health and circulation
• Healthy Habits: Taking care of a pet establishes routine and purpose. In fact, studies found that dog owners are often less likely to be obese and report better sleep, which improves overall well-being
• Social Connection: Walking a dog or visiting a dog park naturally brings us into contact with neighbors and other pet owners. This combats loneliness and can improve mental health

My journey has been long and painful. I buried my grief deep and locked love away, but the evidence is clear: dogs bring joy, health, and healing into our lives. Rico and Romy have shown me that it might not be too late to let the light in. Every time Rico looks at me with trust and wags his tail, I try to open a little more of my heart. I know now that the risk of loving him is worth the reward. After all, dogs can teach us how to love and cope with loss, and I’m slowly learning their lesson. In the end, it may be the dog who has done the rescuing — helping me heal one wag at a time.