It was supposed to be a quick trip to grab groceries—ten, maybe fifteen minutes tops. I left Rolo, our old mutt with chocolate fur and eyes that always looked a little too human, in the living room with my two daughters, Thea and Junie. I even said, “Be nice to Rolo, he’s not a jungle gym.” They nodded like angels.
But when I came back… I stopped cold in the doorway.
Rolo wasn’t on the couch like usual. He was in the middle of the floor—motionless, wide-eyed, and absolutely smothered in Barbies, teacups, stickers, and a glittery pink boa that may have once belonged to a unicorn costume. A plastic tiara sat crookedly on his head, and one of Junie’s tiny socks was looped around his tail.
Thea, with a marker uncapped in her hand, proudly announced, “We made him Queen Barkarella!”
Rolo didn’t even blink. Just stared at me with that exhausted, betrayed look that somehow screamed “I’ve seen things.”
I knelt down, gently moved a Ken doll off his back, and whispered, “You okay, buddy?”
He let out the slowest sigh I’ve ever heard from a living creature.
But then I noticed something. One of the Barbies was tucked under his paw like a baby. And Junie had laid a blanket across his belly like she was putting him to bed. They hadn’t just played on him—they had folded him into their little world, the only way they knew how. With love and chaos.
That’s when I realized…
They weren’t just playing dress-up. They were trying to care for him, in their little-girl way. Rolo had become part pet, part patient, part princess… and oddly, part therapist.
That week had been rough.
I’d been distracted—mentally, emotionally. Their dad, Milo, had started working night shifts and sleeping through most days. We were stretched thin, and I knew the girls felt it. I had snapped at them more than once for things that didn’t matter. Forgotten to pack Thea’s school snack. Missed Junie’s bedtime story two nights in a row. And Rolo, sweet old Rolo, had been quietly absorbing all that leftover tension we didn’t know what to do with.
I asked them gently, “Why all the… royal treatment?”
Thea said, “Rolo looked sad.”
Junie added, “We wanted to make him fancy so he’d feel better.”
My throat clenched. I looked at that ridiculous boa, the plastic cup balanced on his paw, the two girls beaming like they’d just saved the world—and something inside me cracked open.
Later that evening, I sat with Rolo on the porch after putting the girls to bed. He was back to his usual self, laying on my feet like a warm, tired rug. I stroked his ears and murmured, “Thanks for letting them love you their way.”
That dog had always had this uncanny ability to hold space. He didn’t need to bark or beg. He just was—steady, present. Even when Milo and I argued in whispers late at night. Even when I cried in the laundry room with a basket of unmatched socks. He’d be there, pressing his head gently against my shin, like he was saying, You don’t have to hold it all alone.
The next morning, I found the girls in the backyard. They’d dragged Rolo out on a beach towel under the maple tree and were pretending he was at a spa. Cucumber slices (well, Cheerios) on his eyes, and a bowl of water nearby with Junie chanting “hydration is key!”
I didn’t stop them.
Instead, I joined them.
We brushed Rolo’s fur together, told him he was the most beautiful queen in the kingdom, and laughed so hard when he finally got up and trotted away with a string of toy pearls still around his neck.
Something shifted that day. Not in a dramatic, movie-ending way—but enough.
Enough for me to start slowing down. To choose a game over laundry once in a while. To sit on the floor and build block towers with Junie or draw with Thea without checking my phone. Enough to remind myself that kids don’t need perfection—they just need presence.
And dogs?
Well, they might just be the best quiet therapists this world has.
Rolo’s still with us. Older, wobblier, greyer around the snout—but still steady. Still soaking in our chaos with that same deep patience.
Every now and then, I catch Thea brushing his fur or Junie wrapping him in a baby blanket. And I smile, because I know: they’re still loving him their way. And somehow, he’s still holding all of us together.
Sometimes the best kind of love is the messy, glitter-covered, silly kind. And sometimes, the quietest creatures teach us the loudest lessons.
❤️ If this story made you smile, laugh, or maybe even tear up a little, give it a like and share it with someone who loves their furry friend. We could all use a reminder that love doesn’t have to be perfect—it just has to be real.