Our dog Miso has the gentlest spirit. She’s a sweet rescue with a huge heart and an oddly strong dislike for paper towels. Despite being a strong breed, she’s all about soft snuggles and quiet companionship. Honestly, she’s brought a kind of calm to our family we never even knew we were missing.
One particularly rough night, our toddler Levi was overtired and couldn’t settle. I tried it all—rocking, lullabies, pacing in the dark. Out of options and running on fumes, I opened the baby gate and softly called for Miso. She padded in, lay down beside the crib, and within seconds, Levi began to calm. He reached through the bars and gently touched her ears. The crying faded.
On a whim, I picked Miso up and laid her gently inside the crib. She curled beside Levi like she’d done it a thousand times. Watching them breathe together, peaceful and still, I finally exhaled. For the first time in days, I felt like we were okay. I dozed off nearby.
But the next morning, everything changed.
Salome—my partner—had seen the baby monitor footage. She sat across from me, coffee untouched, and said just one thing:
“You put the dog in the crib.”
I tried to explain. I told her I stayed close all night, that Miso is incredibly gentle, that it was the only thing that had helped Levi rest. But she wasn’t hearing it.
She packed a small bag, scooped Levi into her arms, and left for her sister’s house.
I didn’t hear from her for three days. Longest days of my life.
When we finally met up—at a quiet park, sitting on a shaded bench—she told me the real reason it hit her so hard.
When she was five, a family dog bit her little cousin. It wasn’t a vicious attack, but it left a scar—physically and emotionally. Her family had brushed it under the rug, but the fear never left her. Seeing Miso curled up beside our toddler brought that fear rushing back.
That conversation was the start of something new. We talked for hours—about trust, about boundaries, and about what we both need to feel safe as parents. I apologized for making a decision without her. I hadn’t considered what it might trigger for her.
Now, we have a plan that works for both of us.
Miso naps just outside Levi’s room, curled up on her own bed. She’s still close—close enough to hear his giggles or little footsteps—but we all feel more secure with that bit of distance. And Salome and I have started checking in more. About parenting. About emotions. About the quiet promises we make to each other.
What started as one moment of comfort became a turning point for how we move forward—as partners, as parents, and as a family.
