What My Dogs Have Taught Me About How to Be a Better Human

Over the course of our marriage, my husband, Stewart, and I have had four dogs.

First, there was Allie. Allie was our “first child,” our princess. She never met a stranger, and she was extraordinarily intelligent. If Allie were a person, she would have earned a full-ride scholarship to the university of her choosing and likely picked up a few Nobel Peace Prizes along the way.

We rescued Allie when she was a ten-week-old puppy while on a youth trip to Alabama with our Kentucky youth group. We brought her home on the church van and let the youth group name her. They landed on “Allie” because she came from “Ali-bama.”

Allie, a Labrador/Chow mix, grew to be a tall, eighty-five-pound beauty. When I took Allie for walks, however, strangers would often cross the street as soon as they saw her. I suspect it was her black coat and tall stature. She did look intimidating. But if they had taken the time to know her, they would have discovered just how sweet she really was.

The most intimidating thing about Allie was her ability to outwit you. I’m still not sure how, but she could Houdini her way through a two-inch opening in the front door. And once she was free, she would Pepé Le Pew her way through the neighborhood, appearing to barely move while her pursuer (me) was completely out of breath trying to catch her.

Once we had children, we discovered just how nurturing and motherly she was. Wherever the kids were, that’s where Allie wanted to be. I remember walking through the neighborhood one day with a baby in a stroller, a toddler on a trike, and Allie on a leash when someone said to me, “You let that dog around your children?”

“Yes, sir. We do.”

He clearly didn’t understand that Allie was our nanny.

Truly, wherever the baby was, that’s where Allie was. We’d make a pallet of blankets on the floor with a little barrier of pillows for tummy time, and once the baby was settled, Allie would calmly lie down inside the perimeter and monitor all baby activity. When our children began to crawl, they learned by climbing over “Mount Allie.” She would be lying peacefully, only to be nudged awake by a baby attempting to summit her back. She’d lift her head, assess the situation, and then lay it right back down.

That dog had the patience of Job.

When Allie was ten, my brother and sister-in-law gifted us a new puppy. This puppy, a West Highland Terrier, was the smallest dog I’d ever seen. She was nothing more than a tiny white ball of fur who blended in just a little too well with our white linoleum kitchen floor. We let the kids name her. After our youngest offered up “Hairdo” and “Toothbrush,” our oldest offered “June,” inspired by the Junie B. Jones book series.

June—or June Bug, as we called her—could not have been more opposite from Allie. Allie was a tall, robust, eighty-five-pound sweetheart. June was a small, barely one-pound ball of chaos. The peace we had once enjoyed in our home disappeared somewhere around June’s third month of life. She was adorable, no doubt—but she was a menace.

June believed the world revolved around her, and it took two full weeks of puppy boot camp just for us to peacefully co-exist under the same roof. Like Allie, she was smart. But where Allie used her intelligence for good, June… did not. June was also greedy. If Allie had a toy, that toy immediately became June’s favorite. Allie quickly learned that if she wanted peace, all she had to do was grab a toy—despite being long past the phase of caring about toys—and pretend to enjoy it. June would snatch it, run off to her lair, and chew it to oblivion. And Allie would finally get her nap.

June—full-grown at twelve pounds— also believed she was much bigger and fiercer than she actually was, and, at times, ended up in altercations with dogs three or four times her size. One day, our neighbor’s dog, Bailey—a chocolate lab—came into our yard while we were outside and ran straight to June. As June barked and snarled, Bailey growled back—head lowered, eyes full of malice, the hair along her back standing on end, like she was calculating how to take June out.

Just when we thought June was a goner, Allie calmly walked over, placed herself between Bailey and June, and looked directly into Bailey’s eyes. She didn’t bark. She didn’t growl. She didn’t move. She just looked. And when Bailey met Allie’s gaze, her tail dropped, the hair on her back lay down, and she slowly backed away before heading home.

See? Nobel Peace Prize.

When Allie was nearing fifteen and June was about five, we temporarily fostered Chandler, a hound mix rescued by a friend through Southern Pines Animal Shelter. Our friend couldn’t keep him in her apartment, but she planned to take him full-time once she found dog-friendly housing. Stewart and I had already agreed that if that plan fell through, Chandler would stay with us.

It did. So, he did.

The first time Chandler saw Allie, he was intimidated, crossing to the other side of the proverbial street as she came near. But Allie, in her motherly way, approached him gently, gave him a sniff of approval, and then let him run and chew and do whatever it is that energetic puppies do. About two months later, Allie passed away. It was just June and Chandler now.

June, who had grown increasingly crotchety with age, wanted nothing to do with him. But Chandler loved June. Truly. He was smitten. It became his life’s mission to win her over. And eventually, he did. June—tight-wound and perpetually unimpressed—softened. I’m not convinced she ever relaxed prior to knowing Chandler, but as she experienced his relentless love, something inside her shifted. The two became inseparable. Honestly, it was a little ridiculous how much they loved each other.

And when June got sick and passed away, Chandler’s heart broke. He was never the same.

A year and a half later, we welcomed Mabel—a black Lab mix—into the family. We thought Chandler might cheer up with a new companion. For the first four months, he ignored her completely. (To be fair, Mabel was… a lot. I wish I could have ignored Mabel, too.)

Eventually, though, they learned to co-exist, and a fascinating dynamic emerged. Chandler became Mabel’s disciplinarian, keeping her in line when needed, and Mabel became Chandler’s voice. Chandler was so gentle that he wouldn’t always ask for what he needed, but somehow, Mabel knew.

There were many times she would insist—loudly—that she needed to go outside. We’d get up to let her out, and Chandler would follow. Once outside, Chandler would relieve himself (like he’d been holding it for days), while Mabel casually sniffed around, having accomplished her mission. She did the same thing when he needed water. It was remarkable. Mabel knew what Chandler needed and made sure he got it.

Chandler passed away in February 2025, and now we are, once again, a one-dog family. Mabel is the new princess, though, of course, she will never replace Allie.

But here’s what I’ve learned from our dogs over the years.

Allie taught me that anger is never the answer to conflict. There is always another way. Sometimes it requires creativity. Sometimes it requires a direct approach. But it never requires hostility. And when Allie grew sick, I prayed and cried over her, thanking her for being such a beautiful light in my life. As she closed her eyes for the last time, I whispered in her ear, “Thank you, Allie, for being the best girl and for loving us all so well.”

June taught me that even the most difficult personalities can soften. Sometimes all it takes is patience—and a kind of stubborn, unrelenting kindness. I try to remember that when I encounter people who require “extra grace.” When June passed, I thanked her, too, for reminding me not to give up on the hard-to-love.

Chandler taught me persistence. His quiet devotion to June reminded me that relationships are built slowly through showing up, again and again. He also taught me that loss changes you. It leaves a mark. But even then, life can still be good. You can still thrive. On the day Chandler died, we surrounded him with kisses, treats, and gratitude: “You’re such a good boy, Chandler. We love you so much. Thank you for giving us all of your big, tender heart.”

Mabel has taught me that everyone needs a purpose. Once she discovered hers—speaking up on Chandler’s behalf—she became a little easier to live with. (That, and the discovery that anxiety medication for dogs is, in fact, a real and helpful thing.) As anxious and distractible as she once was, Mabel learned to pay attention to what mattered. Now she gets plenty of what she always wanted anyway: long walks, quiet time, and our undivided attention.

I’m so grateful for the ways I’ve been shaped by the animals I’ve loved. They have, in their own way, been my teachers. I believe God has placed animals here with us so that we, through loving them and caring for them, can learn how to better love and care for the people around us.

If you have pets or care for animals, it might be worth paying attention. What might the animals you love be teaching you about how to be a better human?