Growing up, my mom was 100% that “no pets in the house” person. Didn’t matter if it was a fish, hamster, or stray cat begging at the back door—she’d shut it down before we even finished asking. Her classic line was, “I raised three kids, I’m not cleaning up after anything else.” So I honestly just stopped bringing it up after a while.
Then a few months ago, I brought home this little rescue chihuahua named Churro. I figured it was temporary—just until I could find someone to take him in. I told my mom I’d keep him out of her way, swore up and down he wouldn’t shed or bark or chew her shoes. The first week, she barely acknowledged him, just shuffled past and gave me that “don’t push your luck” look.
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But little by little, I caught her sneaking him pieces of chicken under the table. Then she started talking to him while she did the crossword, like he was some little furry roommate. But what really got me was coming into the living room today and finding her curled up on the couch, wrapped in her favorite blanket—with Churro tucked in her arms, both of them snoring like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
She looked up when I walked in, eyes wide like she’d been caught doing something mischievous. But instead of the usual defense or excuse, she just sighed and smiled.
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“I didn’t know I could love a little dog like this,” she said, her voice soft, almost shy. “I’ve had my fill of kids, but this one… I think I might actually be getting used to him.”
It wasn’t just the change in her attitude that shocked me, it was the look on her face. There was a softness there, a warmth I hadn’t seen in years. Mom had always been tough—tough on us, tough on life, never one to show vulnerability. Seeing her like this, curled up with a dog she once swore she could never stand, was… honestly, it was a little heartwarming. But also a little bit of a mystery.
“I never thought I’d see the day,” I said, shaking my head.
She looked at Churro, who had his little paws tucked under his chest, eyes closed in the kind of peaceful sleep that only a dog could pull off. “I thought I’d hate it, honestly. But… I think I needed this. You don’t know what you need until it just happens, I guess.”
I wanted to ask her more, but I didn’t. I had a feeling that this wasn’t just about Churro. It had something to do with her, too. Mom had always kept her emotions close to the chest. Even when things were tough, even when life wasn’t going the way she’d hoped, she never let on. But I could see the change in her—there was a softness, a vulnerability she hadn’t shown in years.
A few weeks went by, and it became impossible to ignore just how attached she’d gotten to that little dog. She started buying him toys. She picked up special treats from the pet store, and every night, after dinner, she’d sit by the couch and watch her favorite shows with him curled up next to her. If anyone else tried to pet him, she’d give them a look like, He’s mine now, back off. It was bizarre at first, seeing my mom like this, but also kind of beautiful in its own way.
One day, I came home to find her sitting at the kitchen table, staring at an old photo album. It was the one we kept of family holidays and vacations—nothing out of the ordinary, just a collection of memories. She didn’t notice I had walked in, and I stood there for a moment, just watching her, wondering what she was thinking.
“Everything okay, Mom?” I asked gently.
She blinked, startled, before closing the album with a soft thud. “Yeah, yeah… just thinking about things.”
“What kind of things?”
She hesitated, but then her eyes softened. “You remember your dad, right? How he always used to say he wanted a dog, but I never went for it? He was never into the idea of pets, either.”
I nodded, of course I remembered. Dad had always been the one to say “no” when I asked about getting a dog, a cat, or anything else. He’d been pragmatic, didn’t want any extra responsibilities. And even though I loved him, I knew he wasn’t the affectionate type.
Mom smiled, though it was a sad smile. “Well, it’s funny. I always thought if I gave him a dog, maybe… maybe he’d show some kind of affection. Maybe it would soften him up, you know?”
Her voice cracked a little, and I realized there was something deeper going on than just the story of her stubbornness with pets. It was more than that. There was something about Churro that was filling a space inside her, something that had been empty for a long time.
“I never got him the dog,” she said softly. “And I think I might have always regretted that. It wasn’t about the dog itself, but the idea that it could have made him softer, could have brought us closer.”
The words hit me harder than I expected. I had never known how deeply my mom had felt about Dad’s emotional distance. He wasn’t a bad man, but he wasn’t exactly the “show your feelings” kind of guy either. I didn’t realize how much she had longed for something more.
“That’s why Churro is so important to me,” she continued, her voice steady now. “He’s… different. He’s easy to love. He’s not complicated. He doesn’t judge, doesn’t expect anything. And maybe, just maybe, he’s filling that gap I never knew I had.”
It clicked. It wasn’t just about the dog. It wasn’t about Churro at all, really. It was about her—about the loneliness she’d felt for so long. She had raised us, worked hard, and always put everyone else’s needs before her own. But somewhere along the way, she had become someone who thought she could go through life without asking for the kind of affection or companionship she truly needed.
“I never thought a dog would make me feel better,” she said with a small laugh, wiping away a tear. “But here we are.”
I walked over and hugged her, just holding her for a moment. “It’s okay, Mom. You deserve to have something in your life that makes you happy.”
And then, just like that, things changed. Not only was Churro getting all the love and attention, but my mom was starting to open up in ways I hadn’t seen in years. We talked more, really talked, and she started sharing things about herself that I hadn’t known—her dreams, her hopes, even her regrets.
But the real twist came a few months later. Mom called me one afternoon, her voice unusually upbeat.
“Guess what?” she asked, almost sounding like a kid who couldn’t wait to share good news.
“What’s up?”
“I signed up for dog training classes. I’m going to learn how to teach Churro some tricks. I’m getting a little obsessed with him, aren’t I?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “A little, yeah.”
“I’m serious, though,” she continued, “I’ve been thinking. I’ve always held back from things, from getting too attached. Maybe I was afraid of getting hurt. But with Churro, it’s different. I want to give him my best. And maybe, just maybe, I need to start giving my best to the people around me, too.”
That was a moment I would never forget. My mom, the woman who had been so closed off for so long, was finally letting go of her fears and opening herself up to love—real, unconditional love. Not just for Churro, but for herself, and for the people in her life.
She had found a new purpose, a new sense of joy, and in doing so, she had healed a part of herself that I don’t think any of us had realized was broken. She started volunteering at the local animal shelter, helping to train dogs and, in the process, rediscovering the woman she used to be—the one who had dreams, who had hope, who had the capacity to love deeply.
The lesson here is simple: Sometimes, the things we resist most are the very things we need to heal. Life has a way of surprising us, of showing us new paths, even when we’re convinced we’re set in our ways. And just like Mom learned, sometimes all it takes is a small, furry companion to remind us that love and connection are always worth it.
So, if you’re feeling stuck, or like life has passed you by, don’t be afraid to let something new in. Whether it’s a pet, a passion, or a relationship, opening up to change can bring more joy than you could ever imagine.
