A Girl’s Best Friend

I wish I could bottle up a feeling. Not the fireworks kind — not adrenaline or heartbreak or euphoria — but the quieter kind. The one you get when your dog looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters. It’s not dramatic. It doesn’t need to be. But it’s real. It’s pure. And if you’re someone in your twenties, navigating all the unknowns of this decade, that kind of connection can mean everything.

There’s so much pressure in your twenties to figure it all out. Your career, your relationship status, your city, your “purpose.” Most days it feels like you’re building the plane while flying it. People float in and out of your life. Plans change. You’re asked to be sure of things you’re not sure of yet. 

But your dog? They’ve never once doubted you.

Growing up, we had a dog. He was mine, but I was young, so in a way he was sort of a family dog (but not really). He was there for every childhood milestone, every meltdown, every awkward phase. He had this quiet way of witnessing things without needing to understand them. When he passed, I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel that kind of closeness again. But he showed up when I needed him — and left when he knew I was ready for the next stage (even when I didn’t).

Now, with my current dog, things feel different.

With my childhood dog, I always felt like he was this protective force. Older. Wiser. Steady. He took care of me — instinctively, almost like he understood more about the world than I did. But with this dog, it feels like we’re learning at the same time. I take care of him, but in a way, he’s teaching me too. We’re both navigating the world in real time. I’m reliving and relearning life through him — the small joys, the curiosity, the fear, the risks. It feels less like he’s guiding me and more like we’re growing together. The roles are more blurred now, more mutual. I’m leading him, yes — feeding him, playing with him, walking him — but he takes care of me in quieter, less visible ways. We’re building something — a rhythm, a shared language, a life. We’re both learning as we go. What we like, what we’re afraid of, who we trust. He’s curious about everything: a bug on the sidewalk, a squirrel overhead, the rustle of leaves — reminding me to be present. How to move forward without overthinking it. Watching him makes me slow down. Makes me look.

We’ve created rituals — walking the same block every day, greeting the same neighbors, pausing at the same corner where he likes to sniff the fence like it holds a secret. I complain about the walks sometimes, especially when it’s cold or I’m tired and it’s late, but secretly I’m grateful. He gets me outside. Forces me into the world. Keeps me accountable. He’s helped me form habits I wouldn’t have kept for myself. He’s young and playful, always looking for the next adventure. He forces me to think and care for something other than myself.

He’s more than a companion. He’s a constant. In a time of endless change — breakups, moves, new jobs — he’s been steady — same route, same leash, same nose pulling toward the same tree. Not in a dramatic, grand way. Just by being there. Waiting by the door. Leaning his weight against me when I cry. Nudging my hand when I’ve been scrolling too long. He always greets me with the same excitement, whether I’ve been gone for two minutes or six hours. He is just there; something that seems to be harder and harder to find nowadays. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. His presence says enough.

The wild thing is, he’s seen it all. The dance parties, the outcome of bad dates, the tear-streaked takeout nights, the two-hour phone calls, the wine soaked laughter. The little wins I forget to tell anyone else about. Never trying to solve things; just sitting there in the moment with you. And through it all, he stays. No expectations, no conditions. Just… there.

They don’t care. They’re just happy you came home. There’s no pressure to be polished or impressive. No need to turn it on. You teach each other structure and freedom, patience and play, acceptance and unconditional love without judgment. You watch him discover the world with curiosity, and suddenly you do too.

I wish I could begin to explain the feeling. My heart swells as I observe him taking in the world around him. As I write this, he’s rolling around in the grass like it’s the best day of his life. It probably is. He’s not thinking about yesterday, or what’s next. Just this breeze, this patch of sun, this moment.

And maybe that’s the real secret — not just the idea of “unconditional love” and “loyalty” but the ability to just be with someone. To exist side by side in the mess and the magic. To sit in this moment, and soak it in. To get excited over the little things and appreciate the now — a walk outside, a cool breeze in the evening, the scent of fresh cut grass wafting through the air, a car ride with the windows open, a simple meal, a gentle touch. That’s what he reminds me. That’s what I’m learning to give myself.

There’s a kind of magic in the bond between a girl and her dog — especially in your twenties. Hard to explain, easy to feel. If you know, you know. I wish I could bottle the feeling up and share it, because my words don’t even begin to scratch the surface of what it’s like. It feels like being needed in the best, most genuine way. Nothing waiting in return. Fully accepted. Pure. But you need them too. It’s just there. And in a decade when so little feels stable, that kind of loyalty — that kind of love — feels like everything.

I know it sounds cheesy, and it really is, but aren’t we all looking for that feeling of unconditional love without judgment? Don’t we all seek unwavering loyalty? Aren’t we all trying to find a partner to go through this life with? Someone there for all the ups and the downs, the heartbreaks, the laughs, the milestones, and the in-between moments? Well, there’s your answer.