I never expected I’d be writing something like this, but here I am.
It’s been weighing on my mind for so long that I just need to share it somewhere—get it off my chest in a place where people might actually understand.
I’ve had my dog (let’s call him Rocky) for about two years now.
He’s a bigger pup, with a thick, fluffy coat and these expressive eyes that always seem half-shut—like he’s in a constant state of mellow contentment.
His coloring is a soft blend of tans and browns, with darker tips on his ears that give him a slight “wolfish” look if you catch him in the right light.
But here’s the thing: I’m slowly realizing that a lot of people don’t find him “cute.”
They don’t run up to him with squeals and excited coos.
They don’t ask to pet him in the dog park.
They don’t snap pictures or try to boop his nose.
They just…ignore him.
When I first adopted Rocky, I thought his somewhat stoic demeanor and fluffiness would be a magnet for attention. He’s just so…regal-looking, you know? Like some proud, noble canine that belongs on a mountainside. But as I introduced him to friends and family, I noticed a recurring theme:
“Oh, he’s big, isn’t he?”
“Wow, that’s a lot of fur.”
“He looks…serious.”
That was basically it. Then they’d quickly shift their attention to smaller dogs—like my cousin’s tiny, perpetually bouncy Shih Tzu or my neighbor’s adorable Dachshund mix. I’d watch them fawn over these other dogs, and I’d feel this pang in my chest every time. Because Rocky would be standing there, wagging his tail, eager for the same love and attention, only to get a half-hearted pat or an absent-minded “Hey, buddy,” before they moved on.
At first, I shrugged it off.
I figured, “Hey, not everyone has the same taste in dogs.” But then it started happening in more public settings. Whenever I’d take Rocky to the local dog park, other pet parents would gather in their little clusters, exchanging compliments about how cute each other’s dogs were. Meanwhile, Rocky and I would be off to the side, tossing a squeaky ball around by ourselves. Sometimes, a person might glance over and give a polite nod, but rarely did they engage.
It got to the point where I became hyper-aware of it.
Was I just imagining this?
Maybe I was overthinking it?
But then, one day, I overheard a group of dog owners talking about “how weird” Rocky looked. I was in the fenced-off dog park area, throwing a tennis ball for him, and they were standing by the benches. They didn’t realize I was close enough to hear. One person said, “He looks like a bear. It’s kinda scary.” Another joked, “Yeah, I’d be nervous he’d eat my Chihuahua or something.” And then they laughed. That was the moment it really sank in: People were intimidated by Rocky. They found him “not cute,” maybe even a little threatening. They weren’t seeing the sweet, gentle soul that I see every single day.
I felt my face get hot with embarrassment.
I felt angry, too.
Because I know Rocky’s heart—he’s the kind of dog who will literally whimper when he sees me crying, resting his head on my lap as if to say, “I’m here, it’s okay.” He’s the one who curls up next to me at night, even though the bed is too small for us both, and he’ll end up in the most uncomfortable position just so he can be close. He’s the one who’s never shown a hint of aggression toward anyone. He’s just…pure love, wrapped in a fluffy, oversized package.
But it seems the world doesn’t always appreciate a dog like that.
A few weeks ago, I took Rocky to a pet supply store because we needed to stock up on some new toys and a bigger harness. We were strolling through the aisles, and I noticed a few employees playing with a tiny puppy that a customer had brought in. Everyone was gushing over this puppy’s “cute little face” and “tiny paws.” I walked by with Rocky, and I tried to engage in conversation with a casual, “Hey, that puppy’s adorable, huh?”
They gave me a polite smile, but their attention was locked on the puppy. One of them glanced at Rocky and said, “Oh, he’s…fluffy,” in this sort of dismissive tone. And then they went right back to talking about the puppy’s adorable ears.
It’s silly, but I felt this pang of jealousy on Rocky’s behalf.
Like, why can’t he be fawned over?
Why can’t people see how awesome he is?
I started noticing how it affected Rocky, too. I swear, dogs are more perceptive than we give them credit for. There have been moments at the park where he tries to approach a group of dogs or people, tail wagging, eyes bright, only to have them sort of move away or redirect their attention to a smaller dog. After a few attempts, Rocky will just come back to me, tail still wagging but a little slower, like he’s accepted that this is how things are. He doesn’t complain, obviously. He’s a dog. But I can sense a sort of quiet resignation.
And that breaks my heart.
Because I feel like I owe it to him to show everyone how wonderful he is.
I’m constantly telling people, “He’s the sweetest boy you’ll ever meet,” or “He’s super gentle, don’t worry,” or “He just wants to say hi, I promise.” But I can’t force them to see what I see. I can’t make them see his gentle spirit or the way he lights up when he’s praised.
One particularly tough moment happened during a recent family gathering. My sister came over with her brand-new puppy, and everyone in the living room went wild, passing the little furball around like a newborn baby. Rocky was lying near the sofa, watching everyone, wagging his tail hopefully whenever someone glanced his way. I tried to get people to interact with him: “Hey, did you guys see how well-trained Rocky is now? He can do a spin, and he’ll give you a high-five!”
But all I got was a collective “Awww” directed at the puppy, and maybe a quick, fleeting pat on Rocky’s head. I felt so frustrated I had to step outside for a moment to clear my head. It sounds ridiculous, right? Getting emotional because people weren’t paying attention to my dog? But it’s more than that. It’s seeing someone you love—someone who’s been there for you through so much—being overlooked and knowing there’s nothing you can do to change that immediate perception people have.
I’ve even had random strangers say things like, “Wow, that’s a face only an owner could love!” I laugh it off in the moment, but inside, I’m thinking, “Are you serious right now? This is my baby you’re talking about.”
And I guess that’s what prompted me to write all this.
I’m tired of seeing my dog get ignored or passed over simply because he doesn’t fit the mold of what most people find “adorable.” I don’t blame them for having preferences. Everyone does. But I do wish people could see past the surface sometimes.
Now, before anyone thinks this is all doom and gloom, there have been a few shining moments. Like last week, when a kind-hearted woman at the park approached Rocky and just gushed over how “majestic” he looked. She spent several minutes petting him, talking to him in that high-pitched dog voice we all secretly use, and Rocky was in absolute heaven. He practically melted into her hands, soaking up every ounce of attention. I think I almost cried with gratitude, just seeing someone recognize how special he is.
And then, there’s a local pet bakery that we frequent where the owner adores Rocky. She always slips him a little sample treat and compliments him on his “beautiful coat.” She calls him a “big teddy bear.” I can’t tell you how much that means to me. It’s like a tiny slice of hope that not everyone out there sees him as just a big, intimidating furball.
I’m learning to cope with it all. It’s not like I can change Rocky’s appearance. And honestly, I wouldn’t want to if I could. I love everything about him—his fluffy fur, his soulful eyes, his slightly grumpy-looking expression that contrasts so hilariously with his gentle personality. He’s perfect to me, and that’s what matters most.
But I also want him to experience the world as a place that sees him as lovable, not just as some big dog that people overlook or avoid. So I’ve been working on socializing him in more structured settings—like training classes, dog meet-ups, and volunteer therapy dog programs. My hope is that, through these activities, people will see beyond his looks and realize how special he is.
And, in some ways, it’s starting to work. The more people get to actually interact with him, the more they realize he’s a sweetheart. He’s even made a couple of dog friends—fellow “underdogs” who aren’t the typical small and cuddly type. Watching them romp around together gives me a sense of joy I can’t quite put into words. It’s like they have their own little club of big, misunderstood dogs, and they’re perfectly content with each other’s company.
Still, it’s an ongoing journey.
I wish I could say I’ve come to some grand revelation or that I’ve magically transformed how everyone sees Rocky. The truth is, there are still plenty of days where I feel that sting of disappointment when people flock to the more “traditionally cute” dogs. There are still moments where I overhear comments that make me want to scream, “You don’t know him! He’s amazing!” But I’m learning to live with it and to focus on the little victories.
At the end of the day, Rocky is happy. He gets his daily walks, his belly rubs, his special treat for learning new tricks. He’s healthy, he’s safe, and he’s loved beyond measure by me. And, honestly, maybe that’s all he really needs. Maybe I’m the one who wants the validation for him. Because it hurts me to see him brushed aside, but does it really affect him as much as it does me? He’s a dog. His love is unconditional and unfiltered. He’s not comparing himself to other dogs; he’s just living in the moment, waiting for the next pat on the head or squeaky toy to chase.
So, I guess I’m writing this partly for me, partly for him, and partly for anyone else out there who’s got a pet (or anything they love, really) that doesn’t fit the conventional idea of “cute” or “cool” or “worthy of attention.”
It’s a weird feeling to see something (or someone) you cherish so deeply get dismissed so easily by the rest of the world. But maybe that’s also what makes it special. Because you know their worth, and you’re the one who gets to experience their incredible soul every single day.
I’ll keep working on showing people the amazing dog Rocky is. I’ll keep taking him places where folks might see him in a new light. And I’ll definitely keep showering him with all the affection he could ever want, because he deserves that and more.
Will everyone suddenly start finding him adorable?
Probably not.
Will some people still pass him by in favor of that fluffy little Pomeranian or the bouncy Golden Retriever puppy?
Definitely.
But you know what?
I’m starting to realize that might be okay.
Because at the end of the day, he’s my best friend, and nothing can change that.
I don’t have all the answers, and I don’t know how the story ends.
But for now, I can tell you this: Rocky’s snoring gently at my feet, his fur spilling over the sides of his bed, looking more content than ever. He doesn’t seem to mind that half the world overlooks him.
And for the first time, I’m starting to think maybe I shouldn’t mind either.
It doesn’t mean I won’t keep fighting for him to get the attention and love I think he deserves—it just means that, even if it never happens, I’ll still be right here, loving him harder than ever.
And that, for now, is enough.