I’ve had a dog in my life for as long as I can remember. In fact, when I was born, my dad’s Doberman was already a part of the house. He wasn’t the most loved dog—my parents were hustling hard in their early years, and somewhere in that chaos, his emotional needs took a backseat. I remember him as aggressive, distant. Not because he was born that way, but likely because he was left to fend emotionally for himself.

After him came a Dalmatian—playful and young, but he was cruelly poisoned around the age of three by someone in the neighborhood. Then came a Golden Retriever who stayed with us for many years. He had the kind of presence that made everything feel full. And finally, during my teenage years, we got a pug. I called him my dog. I raised him, cared for him, watched him become part of my mother’s heart too. When I moved to the U.S., he stayed back with my family. Three months into my move, he passed away from a heart attack. My mom was shattered. It took her three long years to even be okay again.

When I finally moved back to India five years later, the emptiness in the house was unbearable. I missed having a heartbeat at my feet, a tail wagging at the door. And so, against my mother’s wishes, I brought home a husky puppy. Looking back, I understand why she resisted—she wasn’t being cold; she was protecting her heart from being broken again.

The pup was just 45 days old when I got him. Fluffy, bright-eyed, curious. I kept him in my room and, like any new pet parent, I dove headfirst into house training. That’s when reality hit me like a ton of bricks: I wasn’t allergic to his fur—but something in his urine and feces was triggering intense allergic reactions. My skin would break out. My breathing would get shallow. And I was sleep-deprived, trying to train him while dealing with this constant physical discomfort.

Two weeks in, I broke. I remember sitting on the floor of my room, puppy by my side, wondering how I could go on. I felt like I had failed. I didn’t want to give up, but I couldn’t do it alone. I decided I would have to give him away. The thought crushed me, and my mom could see it in my eyes.

Without saying much, she stepped in. Not with a grand gesture, but with an understanding that only a mother has. She offered to help, to share the responsibility—because she saw how deeply I cared. Together, we figured out a solution: I’d keep him in a different part of the house while he was still being toilet trained, keeping my allergies at bay without needing to part ways with him.

That moment changed everything.

Now, four years later, he’s still with me. He’s my shadow, my therapist, my mischief-maker. He’s the dog I nearly gave up—and the one who taught me the most about patience, compromise, and unconditional love.

But I often think—what if I had given him up? What would that have done to him?

It’s easy to think puppies are resilient. But dogs are emotionally complex beings. Being passed from one home to another leaves scars, especially at such a young age. Confusion, abandonment, fear—these are not fleeting emotions for them. When we give up on a dog, we don’t just change their address—we shake their trust in humans altogether.

That’s why I’m sharing this story. Not to paint myself as a hero—I very nearly made a decision I would’ve regretted forever—but to speak honestly to anyone considering getting a dog.

Don’t do it for your kids if you’re not ready to step in when they can’t handle it. Don’t do it for Instagram. Don’t do it because you think puppies are cute and cuddly. Do it only if you’re ready for the mess, the compromise, the hard work—and the life-long commitment.

Because unlike us, dogs don’t get to choose who loves them. We owe them the maturity of making that choice responsibly.

Today, I look at my husky and I’m grateful every single day that I stayed. And that someone stayed for me, too.