I’m feeling a little guilty as I sit down to write this. I have to be honest—I never realized how much my dog’s size could become such a big deal. It’s not like I secretly wished for a tiny lapdog, but lately, I’ve been wondering if I made a mistake in how I’ve handled my pup’s growth spurt. Because now he’s bigger than I ever thought he’d be, and apparently, that’s a problem for some of the people in my household.
Let me give you a bit of background so you know how we got to this point.
When I first got my dog—let’s call him Bear—it was love at first sight. He was this fluffy ball of fur with the gentlest eyes I’d ever seen. I remember the day I brought him home; it was cold outside, but he just curled up next to me on the passenger seat and promptly fell asleep. It was the sweetest thing in the world, and I couldn’t help but snap a dozen photos to commemorate that special moment. I was all smiles, thinking I was embarking on a journey that would be filled with boundless cuddles, wagging tails, and that irresistible puppy breath.
At first, everything went exactly like I’d hoped. Bear was the epitome of a playful puppy. He’d bounce around the house, chew on whatever he could find (including my shoes and the corners of the sofa), and then collapse on my lap, snoring softly. I’d post the cutest pictures of him napping under blankets or poking his head out of a laundry basket. Everyone told me how adorable he was, and how lucky I was to have a companion so affectionate.
But then Bear started to grow. At first, I didn’t really notice it because I was seeing him every single day. But I do remember after one particularly long week of working overtime, I came home and realized that my “little” fluff ball was starting to outgrow the dog bed I’d just bought him a month before. It felt like I’d blinked and he’d doubled in size. A short while later, he doubled in size again.
I knew he was going to be a larger dog, but somehow I’d convinced myself that Bear would be “medium-big,” like the kind of dog you can still scoop up if you really needed to. That notion went completely out the window by the time he was about eight or nine months old. He wasn’t just big—he was broad, and he had these long, lanky legs that seemed to extend in every direction. He quickly developed this habit of knocking things off the coffee table if he wagged his tail a little too excitedly.
Still, it wasn’t a major problem for me. I’d never been around many large-breed dogs, but I figured, “Hey, size is just a number, right? He’s still the same loving pup.” He would still try to climb onto the couch and lean against me for belly rubs. It was endearing, in its own way. Sure, once he got close to 70 pounds (and climbing), those cuddle sessions got a bit…claustrophobic. But I didn’t care. I just loved having that moment of peace when he’d flop down and rest his head on my shoulder, letting out a big dog sigh as if all was right in the world.
The trouble started, though, when my partner (and a couple of my friends) began to express discomfort whenever Bear tried to cuddle with them. Don’t get me wrong—everyone adores Bear. But not everyone enjoys having a large, fuzzy mass practically toppling them over on the couch. My partner, in particular, started to gently push Bear off to the side, saying something like, “Not now, buddy. I need some space.” At first, I thought, “Eh, no big deal, maybe he’s just not in the mood.”
But then it happened again. And again. And again. Until, eventually, my partner started to get frustrated, claiming that Bear was “too big to be a lap dog.” It almost sounded like a joke at first, but then that phrase kept popping up: “He’s too big for cuddles like that.”
That’s when I realized that maybe this was more serious than I thought. It wasn’t that Bear was being neglected, but he was being denied the sort of unrestrained affection he’d been used to as a smaller puppy. And I swear you could see the change in his eyes. He’d approach with that sweet dog-smile, tail wagging, only to be rebuffed with a gentle (but very consistent) “No.” I started to see Bear’s ears droop, his tail sag. It was like he was wondering what he’d done wrong.
So, I tried to fix things. I tried to talk to my partner and explain that Bear is used to that closeness—it’s part of his personality. And I get that being crushed by 70+ pounds of love can be overwhelming, especially if you’re just trying to watch TV or read a book in peace. But at the same time, my dog has feelings, too. I can’t just flip a switch and make him understand, “Hey buddy, you grew too big, so now everything you’ve known since you were a tiny pup is off the table.”
The tension just sort of built from there. I noticed that Bear would sometimes try to force a cuddle by creeping up beside me or dropping his chin on my knee. And I’d let him—because I can’t say no to that face. I think my partner started to feel like the bad guy for constantly denying Bear the same kind of physical affection, and that only added to the stress.
Then, the other day, something happened that broke my heart. I’d been in another room, paying bills or something equally un-fun, and I heard Bear’s nails click-clacking across the floor. He must have gone up to my partner, because a few seconds later I heard, “Not right now, buddy, come on. Give me some room.”
And Bear let out this tiny whimper. I’ve never heard him make that sound before. It was so softly pathetic. Like a sigh that turned into a soft moan, as if he was trying to plead, “But…why not?”
That moment shattered me. I got up and went into the room, just to see Bear standing there, tail wagging in slow-motion, looking so confused. My partner, who genuinely loves Bear, still had that determined look on his face, like he just couldn’t handle the weight, the fur, the big dog energy.
I knelt down, put my arms around Bear’s neck, and gave him a long hug. Bear licked my face, letting out this massive dog sigh that felt almost like relief. When I looked up, my partner’s expression softened, but there was still a bit of frustration in his eyes. The elephant in the room was obvious: Bear’s size just wasn’t going to change, and neither was his desire to be physically close.
I can’t say I blame my partner for feeling overwhelmed. Maybe it’s not fair of me to expect everyone else to be cool with being half-suffocated by a giant fluff ball whenever he pleases. But at the same time, Bear is part of our family. And he’s not the only one who’s attached. I rely on those cuddles almost as much as he does.
So, what do I do? I’m stuck between wanting to appease everyone’s need for personal space and wanting to give Bear the love he’s come to expect. Lately, I’ve tried taking Bear on longer walks, giving him more playtime, hoping it would help him get his need for physical touch out of his system in smaller bursts. But that’s not really working. The minute we come back home, he’s looking for a lap to clamber onto or a face to lick.
A lot of times I think about how it’s probably my fault. When Bear was tiny, I encouraged that behavior. I loved it when he curled up on me or fell asleep practically glued to my side. Now that he’s grown, it’s like I forgot to teach him boundaries. But how was I supposed to know he’d turn into such a big dog so quickly? Even my vet said he was going to be on the smaller side of a certain breed range, and yet, here we are—he surpassed that estimate by a good 20 or 30 pounds.
The craziest part is that Bear’s not even the largest dog I’ve ever seen. There are plenty of people out there with Great Danes, Mastiffs, and other dogs that tower over Bear. But for us, in our cozy living room, Bear’s size has become the main character of our everyday drama.
I can’t ignore the tension, though. It’s not all in my head. I see the looks from certain family members when Bear tries to plop himself in their laps. I hear the subtle sighs when he knocks over a glass on the coffee table. I can’t pretend that it isn’t affecting me, because it is. It’s starting to wear on me, and I can feel Bear’s confusion turning into a kind of mopey detachment. There are moments when he just stands there, looking at me as if to say, “Am I allowed up there? Or am I too big?”
And let me tell you, it breaks my heart every time I see him hesitate. He used to be so free, so confident, bounding up to me with that unwavering doggy grin. Now, he’s cautious and uncertain.
I’m sure some people would say, “Just train him properly. Teach him ‘off.’ Teach him when cuddles are appropriate and when they’re not.” I get that it’s possible to do that, but the hardest part for me is that Bear’s not just any dog. He’s basically an extension of my own heart. The idea of telling him he can’t do something that has always been part of his daily routine—like crawling onto the couch for a snuggle—feels like I’m betraying him. Even though logically, I know it’s for everyone’s comfort.
So that’s where I’m at. Conflicted, guilty, and a little helpless. I’m trying to balance my dog’s emotional well-being with the reality of living with a giant, affectionate fur-ball in a house full of people who have varying degrees of tolerance for dog cuddles. I can sense Bear’s heartbreak every time he’s told “no,” and it kills me. But I also can’t force my partner or friends to let him crush them under his weight if they genuinely aren’t comfortable.
I don’t have a perfect solution yet. I’m hoping that with time, Bear will learn that certain behaviors are welcome only when I (or others) invite him. I’m also crossing my fingers that the rest of the household will grow more patient and meet Bear halfway. Maybe there’s a compromise here—like designating a special “Bear cuddle time” on the couch with a blanket or something, and he learns that’s the only time he can jump up and smother us with his love.
In the meantime, I’m just…well, I’m just trying not to cry every time I see those big brown eyes look up at me, silently wondering why his usual cuddles are off-limits. It might sound melodramatic, but I genuinely worry that this shift is going to change our relationship. He’s my best friend. And yes, he’s big. Really big. But I wouldn’t trade him for the world.
So here I am, somewhere between heartbreak and hope, trying to figure out how to help Bear navigate a world that suddenly feels less welcoming to him, all because of his size. I wish I could say I have a plan or that I’ve found the perfect method to keep him happy while respecting everyone else’s boundaries. But the truth is, I’m still in the thick of it, trying to piece together a way to make it work for all of us.
I guess that’s just how life goes sometimes. You fall in love with this sweet, tiny creature, and before you know it, they’ve grown into a lovable giant who doesn’t understand why the rules are changing. It’s complicated. It’s messy. And it’s a little painful, for both of us.
But I will say this: Bear still wags his tail whenever I walk in the door. He still gets this goofy grin on his face when I scratch that one spot behind his ear. And he still leans into me whenever I sit on the floor to watch TV. So there’s hope, right? We’re just figuring out a new normal. It may take time, tears, and a lot of trial and error, but I know we’ll find a way to keep that bond strong.
For now, though, I’ll keep reminding him that he’s not “too big” for my love. Because no matter what happens next, my giant, too-big, drooling fur-ball is still my best friend. And I have faith that one day, all of this will make sense—though we might have to endure a bit more heartbreak before we get there.
That’s it. Thanks for listening. I just needed to let all this out somewhere.
I’m not sure what will happen tomorrow or next week, but I do know that Bear and I aren’t giving up just yet. We might stumble along the way, we might get a few new scratches on the coffee table, and we might ruffle a few feathers. But in this house, in this life, we’re going to keep pushing through.
And I guess that’s all I really needed to say: We’re still here, figuring it out. I’m hoping that in time, Bear will get the cuddles he so desperately wants, and that everyone else will find a comfortable space in our new reality. Wish us luck, because we’re going to need it.