I taught my puppy “stay” so I could hide from him

What I discovered when I stopped running from him had nothing to do with dogs

Today I want to make a confession: as a little girl, no matter how much I wanted a dog (well, truth be told, I wanted a whole zoo in my house, but that wasn’t an option), I was afraid of them. I loved them, but from a distance.

And it wasn’t a small fear. It was the kind that made me cross the street, freeze if one came near me, hide behind whoever was closest. Size didn’t matter. A wagging tail didn’t matter. To me, a dog nearby meant danger.

I don’t remember exactly when it started. I think it came from never having lived with any animal, only watching them from afar. Or maybe it makes me think it was an inherited fear, or one from another life. What I do know is that over time, I did what we do with the things that scare us: I avoided them. I tucked them away in a drawer.

I didn’t go near dogs. I didn’t touch them. I didn’t understand them. And because I didn’t understand them, I was even more afraid.

The first door that opened

Years later, my sister moved and got a dog: Aslan. A Golden Retriever, very family-oriented, affectionate, patient. I didn’t live with him, but sometimes he’d stay at the house and I’d take care of him, and even though it wasn’t a deep connection (because he wasn’t my daily responsibility), it was something important: it was the first time I was near a dog without feeling fear.

Aslan taught me I could feel calm and safe near a dog. That they weren’t all danger.

Without realizing it, that experience started opening a door I’d kept shut since childhood. The fear faded over the years. It didn’t go away completely, but it stopped being the first thing I felt when I saw a dog. And that, without my knowing it, was planting the seed, or rather, germinating, the desire to have a dog someday. A Golden Retriever like Aslan, no doubt, a breed I knew, one I already felt I could trust.

Many years passed before I took that step. And when my husband and I finally decided to do it, there was a deeper reason behind it that I’ll share in another post later. But what I can tell you today is that when we decided to get Max, something inside me was already ready to try, even though the fear was still there, so quiet I thought it no longer existed.

When Max arrived, it wasn’t what I expected

I didn’t see him and feel love at first sight. Although I have to say he seemed like the most adorable little thing in the world (so tiny, so innocent, so fluffy), but there was a little bit of fear I didn’t notice at first. I didn’t know how to hold him, how to interact with him, how to approach him that first day we went to get him. I was nervous about hurting him if I held him wrong, or when putting on his new harness.

I knew absolutely nothing about dogs. Nothing about their stages, what they need, how to guide them.

When we got home and the days went by, things were fine. We were adapting to each other, getting to know one another. Him adjusting to a new space without his dog family, and me adjusting to this new reality and responsibility.

Until Max started claiming the house as his territory.

The little fluffy thing growled at me

He wouldn’t let me pick up the pee pads. He’d stand on them and growl. His peed-on bed, he wouldn’t let me wash it either. Imagine this little ball of fluff, three or four months old, growling at me and getting upset because I was trying to clean his things.

With those reactions, the fear I thought I’d gotten past came right back. I never imagined a puppy could behave that way. I didn’t have the tools to know what to do, how to respond, how to set boundaries, how to support him through that stage.

And there was absolutely no way I was putting my hand near him.

The urge to run and the choice to stay

Every time I didn’t know how to respond to him, I felt two things at once: the urge to run and the desire to stay beside him.

This makes me laugh now, but I have to confess: I taught him the “stay” command so I could leave him out in the living room and lock myself in the bedroom. Yes, I ran from him. That’s how far it went.

I wasn’t just running from the territorial behavior. His intensity during play overwhelmed me too, biting me with those shark teeth (you know how sharp puppy teeth are); he had my forearms all scratched up. It got so overwhelming that my husband asked me: “Do you want to return him?” That question caught me off guard, but it made me think. He knew I’d say no. I thought about it, but my soft heart couldn’t do it and I immediately said no.

Max didn’t understand rules made up out of fear. And he, not understanding that kind of “game,” would just stay outside with his confused little face.

What he actually needed was the opposite of what I was doing: to be understood and guided with love and intention. Not for me to hide from him.

It wasn’t one day. It was a slow process, a lot of trial and error. Teaching him new commands, no longer to run from him, but to channel his eagerness to do something. There were days I’d let him get close and it was fine. And days the fear came back and I needed space.

Max, though a little confused, never took offense. He never walked away with resentment. He simply waited, or rather, he kept trying with every approach. As if saying: “I’ll be right here when you’re ready. But while I wait ‘patiently,’ let’s do something, because I need to burn off some energy.”

And that innocence and constant presence is what disarmed me.

What happened when I stopped resisting

Over the months, as I gained confidence in raising him (learning about his stages and his needs), naturally, he changed too. He grew calmer. And of course, he was starting to feel understood.

It took five months to fully adapt to him. To get used to the change in routine, to his presence, to the daily care.

And that’s what allowed me to connect with him. I stopped seeing him as a pet and started seeing him as part of the family, like a child I could nurture. And how could I not: we had taken him from his original family. Besides, I had promised his dog mom I would take care of him. Without realizing it, he had already made his way into my heart.

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Max didn’t take my fear away

Max taught me I could have it and still let someone in. That trust isn’t the absence of fear: it’s deciding that what’s on the other side is worth more than the walls you’ve built to protect yourself.

I didn’t understand it at the time, but now I realize that the day I hugged him for the first time without thinking, I understood something that changed everything: the fear had never been about dogs.

The fear was about trusting. About letting something I can’t control get close enough to truly matter.

Max didn’t heal me. Max walked beside me while I was healing, and I still am, thanks to his wisdom.

And that’s what dogs do: they don’t fix you, they don’t force you, they don’t pressure you. They sit with you in front of your fear and wait for you to decide you’re ready.

What Max showed me on the other side of fear

If you’ll let me confess one more thing: I wouldn’t trade Max for anything in this world. This dog came to show me that life is more beautiful when you live it from love, that other side where you find an abundant meadow, full of flowers, butterflies, and where the birds sing sweeter. It sounds cheesy, but that’s how I see life since I started watching him and interpreting from a kinder place what he was trying to show me.

This week we celebrate his seventh birthday, and it makes me nostalgic to think about how fast time has gone by, how much we’ve learned and healed together. If I could turn back time, I’d hold him more, kiss him more, play with him more. But everything is perfect as it was and as it is. He’s doing an amazing job in our home. And even though I can’t carry him like when he was a puppy (because, well, he’s 92 pounds now), I’m so much more present for him. I kiss him, I hug him, I play with him, and I tell him how much I love him and how grateful I am.

He simply has been, and every single day continues to be, my teacher in this life.

This week carries an energy of releasing

Of bringing to light what you’ve been carrying for too long and no longer need. And it closes with a New Moon in Aries, conjunct Chiron, the wounded healer: fire energy, courage, the kind of beginning that starts from a more honest place. Healing the wound that’s been keeping you from taking the first step.

If you’re carrying an old fear (toward your dog, toward connection, toward anything) or any other emotion or memory, this week is inviting you to look at it. Not to destroy it. Just to stop letting it make your decisions for you.

I invite you to answer these questions, because they might help you release it:

• What was that moment for you?

• What did you have to let go of to truly let your dog into your life?”

Thank you for reading this far.

Tell us, what was your moment of realization? If any of this resonated with you or caught your attention, I’d love to read you in the comments.

With love, Maria Fernanda A.P.

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