Lessons Dogs Taught Me (That Humans Forgot to Mention)

Maggie and Jessie on the beach at Cape Cod.

I used to think I understood unconditional love. Then I got a dog.

Dogs don't hedge their bets or play it cool. They don't wait to see if you're worthy before they decide you're their entire world. They just love you—wildly, wholly, with every fiber of their being—and then they dare you to doubt it.

This is where I share what my dogs have taught me about loyalty, joy, resilience, and living like every moment matters. Because to them, it does. Every walk is an adventure. Every return home is a reunion. Every day with you is the best day of their lives.

If you're here, you already know: dogs aren't just companions. They're proof that love doesn't need to be complicated, that forgiveness is always possible, and that sometimes the best response to life is to wag your whole body.

Welcome to Team Dog. There's room on the couch. I hope you aren't allergic. If you are, too bad.

Lessons Dogs Taught Me

(The Humans Forgot to Mention)

I used to think I was the one doing the teaching in my relationships with dogs. After all, I was the one with the training treats, the commands, the understanding of how the world worked. But somewhere between the thousandth enthusiastic greeting at the door and realizing my dog's capacity for forgiveness far exceeded my own, I understood: they've been teaching me all along. Here are a few lessons dogs have taught me.

Lesson One: Forgiveness is Instant

I once accidentally stepped on Jessie's paw. She yelped, I felt terrible, and I spent the next five minutes apologizing profusely. She spent those five minutes wagging her tail and trying to lick my face.

Dogs don't hold grudges. They don't make you earn your way back into their good graces or give you the silent treatment for three days. The hurt happens, they feel it, and then it's over. Forgiven. Done.

I've tried to bring this into my human relationships—not the forgetting (some things shouldn't be forgotten), but the not carrying it like a stone in my pocket for years. The not rehearsing old wounds. The letting the hurt be what it was in that moment without letting it poison every moment after.

Dogs understand that holding onto anger only hurts the one holding it. So they let go. Every single time.

Lesson Two: Joy is a Full-Body Experience

Watch a dog when you come home. They don't just smile or say "oh, nice to see you." Their entire body becomes joy. Tail wagging so hard their whole back end wiggles. Spinning in circles. Making sounds that can only be described as happy screaming.

There's no dignity in it, no holding back, no "let me play it cool." Just pure, unfiltered delight that you exist and you're here and this is HAPPENING.

We humans have gotten so good at tempering our enthusiasm. At being measured and appropriate and not too much. But dogs remind me that joy isn't meant to be polite. It's meant to be felt with your whole self.

Now when something good happens—really good—I try to let myself feel it like my dogs do. Not the spinning and screaming (well, sometimes), but the full-body yes to goodness. The letting it fill me up completely without apologizing for taking up space with my happiness.

Lesson Three: Loyalty Doesn't Keep Score

Maggie doesn't love me more on days when I take her on long walks and less on days when I'm buried in work. She doesn't withdraw affection because I forgot to give her that extra treat or because I was distracted during our play time.

Her love isn't conditional on my performance. It just is.

 You're their person. That's it. That's the whole equation.

They've taught me that real loyalty isn't transactional. It doesn't keep a running tally of who did what for whom. It doesn't disappear when things get hard or when you're not your best self.

Some days I'm tired, grumpy, not particularly lovable. My dog doesn't care. She's still right there, steady as ever, reminding me that I'm worthy of love even on my worst days.

Lesson 4: The Walk is the Point

Never treat dog walks like an errand—something to check off the list so you can get back to the "important" stuff. 

Dogs don't walk like that. Every walk is an odyssey. Every smell is worth investigating. Every neighbor is a potential friend. Every leaf blowing across the path is cause for wonder.

They've taught me that the destination isn't the point. The walk itself is the point. The being outside, the movement, the noticing—that's the whole thing.

Now when we walk, I try to be where I am instead of where I'm going. I notice the weather, the light, the way the street looks different in October than it did in July. I let the walk take as long as it takes.

Dogs understand something we forget: life is happening right now, on this walk, in this moment. Not later when we get home and get back to work. Now.

And if we're lucky, they'll keep reminding us, one walk at a time.