“Some people see dogs as pets. I saw them as mirrors.”
I wasn’t looking for myself. I was looking for a distraction.
A few months ago, I picked up The Encyclopedia of Dog Breeds by Juliette Cunliffe. I thought I’d skim through it, maybe learn which dogs are good with kids, or which ones can survive my allergy-ridden apartment. Nothing serious.
But somewhere between the Arctic-born Husky and the soulful Basset Hound, I started to cry. Not because of anything tragic.
Because I saw… me.
In their eyes. Their instincts. Their stories. The more breeds I flipped through, the more I recognized parts of myself I hadn’t named yet.
🐕 Dogs Don’t Hide Who They Are. Why Do I?
The first time I saw the Saluki, I paused. This ancient desert hound, graceful and reserved, bred for speed and solitude. A dog that runs like the wind but needs time to trust. Something clicked.
That’s me. I push forward fast. I appear composed. But inside, I’m cautious. Quiet. Always scanning for safety.
Then I saw the Boxer. Loyal, energetic, sometimes too much — a goofball with a heart so big it spills out of their eyes. That’s also me. The version of me that shows up when I feel loved.
And the Akita? Fiercely loyal but known for being stoic, protective, private. Definitely me during heartbreak.
It was the first time I felt like someone — or something — just got me.
🧬 What If the Breeds We’re Drawn To Reflect Who We Secretly Are?
It hit me halfway through the book: maybe we don’t choose dog breeds randomly.
Maybe the dogs we’re drawn to are subtle echoes of our inner landscape. The parts we like. The parts we hide. The parts that are still healing.
-
My friend who struggles with boundaries? She adores Great Pyrenees — big, gentle guardians who hold space for others.
-
My brother, a classic extrovert? Obsessed with Retrievers — loyal, sociable, always in the middle of the action.
-
Me? I keep coming back to the lone hunters, the desert runners, the quiet protectors.
The breeds we love might not be random at all. They might be emotional archetypes we’re trying to understand — or become.
🧠 Dog Breeds as Emotional Blueprints
This book didn’t give me a personality quiz. It gave me something better: emotional blueprints in fur.
-
The Husky — independent, strong-willed, craves purpose. (Do I feel aimless lately?)
-
The Cocker Spaniel — sensitive, affectionate, thrives on connection. (Why am I so tired when I don’t see people for days?)
-
The Irish Wolfhound — calm giant, soft soul. (Can I stop pretending toughness is my only armor?)
I started wondering: what if I approached my own personality the way we approach dog breeds?
Not as flaws to fix — but as traits to understand, work with, and love.
💡 What If You’re Not “Too Much” or “Too Quiet”? Maybe You’re Just… a Different Breed.
We give dogs more grace than we give ourselves.
No one yells at a Whippet for being anxious in chaos. No one expects a Saint Bernard to jog 10 miles. We understand that each breed has needs — and we adapt.
But when it comes to ourselves?
We shame our sensitivity.
We judge our need for rest.
We try to “train out” our nature instead of loving it.
What if we started treating ourselves like breeds? With patience. With respect for instinct. With curiosity, not criticism.
🐾 The Dog That Found Me
I don’t have a dog yet. But when I do, I think I’ll choose a Basenji — a barkless hunter from Central Africa. Independent, quiet, intuitive. A little weird. Definitely misunderstood.
Just like me.
Or maybe I’ll choose a Staffordshire Bull Terrier — loyal to the bone, clownish, resilient. The version of me I’m still becoming.
💬 Final Thought: Dogs Don’t Lie About Who They Are. Maybe It’s Time We Stop Too.
The Encyclopedia of Dog Breeds is a book about dogs. But it ended up being a book about humans — in all our loyal, neurotic, lovable mess.
If you're feeling lost, try this:
Don’t look in the mirror.
Look in the eyes of a dog.
You might just see yourself — the version that doesn’t need fixing. Just understanding.
No comments:
Post a Comment