This morning I was on my way to my daughter’s house, a bag of still-warm croissants in hand. You who’ve read my blog for a while know this about me: I have a phobia of dogs. No reason, no backstory—it just is. Always has been. Just the sight of a dog has been enough to send a chill through me. I’ve turned around mid-walk, declined visits, crossed streets, and have never, ever touched a dog.
But time, and your kind encouragement, have worked a quiet shift in me. The fear isn’t gone, but it doesn’t lead the way like it used to.
So, there I was, nearing the intersection not far from my daughter’s place, when I saw a black dog—later I’d learn it was a Staffordshire Bull Terrier. It was clearly lost, nose to the pavement, weaving back and forth like it was searching for home. The pavement was scorching, and the dog looked confused, desperate, exposed. My first instinct should have been to turn the car around. But instead—just like the Grinch whose heart grew three sizes that day—something softened in me.
Empathy rose up and fear took a back seat.
I stopped the car. I opened the door. I tapped my leg and, to my surprise, the dog came right to me. Not a shred of fear stirred in that moment. It rubbed against me gently, licked my leg, and looked up with the softest, kindest eyes. I reached down, caressed its head, and thought: Who am I? It felt like someone else had taken over my body—someone braver, more open.
I popped open the trunk, thinking I’d take the dog to my daughter’s house. But the thought of lifting it made me pause—my nerves reminding me they still lived there. Just then, a friend happened to drive by. I flagged him down, and together we brought the dog safely to my daughter’s. She called the police, who came quickly, scanned the dog’s chip, and within minutes, the owner was on the way.
The reunion was sweet and simple. As the dog left, tail wagging, I sat in quiet awe.
Sometimes life shifts without warning. Empathy trumped fear. And in that brief, sunlit moment, I saw what’s possible—how even the most stubborn parts of ourselves can soften, how small acts can reshape the story we tell about who we are.
If only the world could let go of its fears—just for a moment—what a different place it might be.
Footnote:
If I had seen that dog on the road before—big, black, and at first glance like a pit bull—I would’ve been terrified. It wasn’t a sweet little fluffy dog, or the kind people reassure me “won’t hurt you.” No, this one looked like it could do damage if it wanted to. And yet… I wasn’t afraid. There was something about him, and something in me—an unexpected surge of empathy that was stronger than my fear. That still amazes me.
Photos found on Google.
Leave a Reply