Fur, Faithfulness, and Healing: The Love of Dogs

April 9, 2025

There are days when the world feels impossibly heavy. When my body aches from the slow, grinding toll of cancer, and my spirit feels worn thin from the constant strain of leading through uncertainty and political tension.

As a Senior Executive, in the federal government, I am expected to be clear-headed, composed, and decisive, even as I privately navigate the unpredictability of treatment, fatigue, and fear.

It often feels like I’m fighting on two fronts. One is deeply internal, where my body and soul are stretched by pain, scans, and side effects. The other is external and unrelenting, filled with meetings, policy shifts, and pressure from all sides of the political spectrum. Both are demanding. Each pulls from a well that sometimes feels dangerously close to empty.

There are moments when the expectations feel impossible to meet. Moments when I question whether I can keep showing up with the same strength and steadiness that others have come to rely on from me.

As the world moves forward with its usual urgency, I often feel like I’m one step behind, struggling to keep pace, trying not to fall too far back. And yet, beneath the exhaustion and the ache, there is still a voice inside me that says, "I want to do more. I can do more." Not out of obligation or pride, but because I know who I am beneath the fatigue. I know what I’m capable of. The fire inside me hasn’t gone out, it’s just burning a little lower right now, steady and quiet. I still care deeply. I still want to lead well, to show up fully, to be present for the people who count on me. I want to return to that rhythm, not because I feel forced to, but because it’s part of how I feel most alive.

But wanting and being able are not always in sync. And that disconnect, the space between the desire to do more and the physical or emotional capacity to make it happen is one of the hardest places for me to live in. It's humbling. Some days, it feels like failure. Other days, it feels like surrender. Most days, it just feels like grief for a version of myself I haven’t seen in a while.

Still, I hold on to the truth that this moment is not the end of my story. My strength hasn’t disappeared, it’s just being redefined. And in the quiet of that struggle, I am learning that showing up at all, even imperfectly, even quietly, still matters.

In the middle of all this heaviness, there are two beings who never waver. Nymphodoria (Tonks) and Lupin. They do not care about titles or treatments. They do not measure me by my energy levels, decisions made, or deadlines met. When I am exhausted, physically, mentally, emotionally, they show up without judgment.

They see the truth of who I am beneath the armor. And somehow, in their gaze, I begin to see that person too.

There is something profoundly healing in the simple presence of a dog.

Tonks, our younger dog, insists on being seen. She’s a burst of atomic energy wrapped in fur, a wild-hearted spark who brings life wherever she goes. She doesn’t tiptoe through the house. She bounds. She twirls. She checks every room like she’s hosting a party and wants to make sure everyone’s having a good time. Her love is bold and shameless. She doesn’t hesitate to hop into my lap or nudge my hand with her nose, even if I’m mid-thought or half-asleep. Her joy is insistent and contagious. She does not ask permission to love me. Somehow, in the middle of this healing journey, when my energy is fragile and peace feels far away, that insistence is exactly what I need.

Tonks does not let me fade into the background. She refuses to let me become invisible. To her, I am not defined by fatigue or illness or how many tasks I didn’t finish today. She sees me, not the worn-out version, not the worried one, but the me that still matters. The me who laughs, who belongs, who is still here. She reminds me that I am not just surviving, but living. That I am still part of the rhythm of this home. I matter in the music of our days. And healing, I’m learning, doesn’t always arrive as a calm whisper. Sometimes it barges in with a wagging tail and an unstoppable desire to be petted and heard.

Then there is Lupin. Our gentle elder statesman. At fifteen years old, Lupin moves slowly and rests often, but every step he takes carries wisdom and love. His eyes are softer now, his muzzle grayed with time, but his spirit remains luminous. He doesn’t need grand gestures or noisy affection. Just the sight of him curled up nearby, breathing evenly, is a comfort I cannot quite explain. Lupin has walked through every chapter of my family’s life. He’s been there through the heart aches, the children growing up and moving on, the hospital visits, the late-night laughter, the years that flew by too fast. He doesn’t seek the spotlight. He simply stays. Present. Loyal. Undemanding. In his quiet way, Lupin gives me permission to rest, to just be. There is a kind of peace in his gaze that tells me, without words, that I am safe. That even now, I am whole.

What amazes me most is how dogs love without conditions or comparisons. They don’t care if we are put together or falling apart. They don’t flinch at our exhaustion or judge our bad days. They see us exactly as we are in the moment and they choose us every single time.

We could be lying on the couch, wrapped in blankets and silence, or celebrating a rare moment of energy and strength. It makes no difference to them. They don’t need explanations. They don’t need us to be fixed. In their eyes, we are not broken. We are simply theirs. And that, to them, is more than enough.

There is something deeply sacred about that kind of love. It doesn’t try to save or solve. It simply stays. It wraps itself around you without asking anything in return. In this season of healing, I am learning that I am not just moving through it alone, I am being held through it. Held by two fur-covered souls who never stop believing I’m worthy of love, just as I am.

Together, Tonks and Lupin are a perfect balance. Tonks is a firework, blazing with color and chaos and life. Lupin is a candle, steady and warm, glowing quietly in the dark. Each of them offers a different kind of medicine. And both, in their own way, have tethered me to joy, to presence, to hope.

So today, and every day, I thank them. For every tail wag that says “you’re still here and I’m glad.” For every nudge, every cuddle, every silent moment of shared breath. For the way they look at me and somehow always see the best parts, even when I can’t.