I’m not even sure how to begin describing this situation without feeling a pang of guilt in every word I write.
A few months ago, if you had asked me about my dog, Milo, I would have said he’s my pride and joy. The kind of dog who jumps on the bed in the morning and smothers me with wet-nosed kisses. The companion who sprints across the yard, ears flapping, as soon as I open the back door to let him explore the garden.
But things changed. Maybe it was subtle at first—maybe I was too busy to notice. All I know is that, one day, I realized I had started keeping him in his crate way more often than I ever thought I would. And now, whenever I glance at him, all I see is the longing in his eyes.
It’s like he’s asking, Why are you doing this to me?
And I don’t have a good answer.
It all started when I took on some extra work. Long hours, unpredictable schedule, the stress piling up. Milo, being the energetic boy he is, would get into mischief if left unattended for too long. I’d come home to find chewed-up shoes, scratch marks on the door, and occasionally something worse—like the time he knocked over a lamp and nearly started a small fire in the living room.
I kept promising myself that all of this was temporary, that once I got a better handle on my workload, I’d go back to our old routine. I told myself that crating him during my long days out was the only way to protect the house—and to protect him from hurting himself.
But as time went on, temporary started feeling more and more like forever.
I’d leave in the morning, double-check that he had water and maybe a treat or two in his crate, and then lock the latch with a familiar, unsettling click. Off I went, not returning until late into the evening, the day’s exhaustion weighing me down. By the time I got back, I didn’t even have the energy to walk him properly. I’d let him out in the yard for a few minutes—on a leash, in case he took off—then usher him back in so I could sink into bed, only to do it all over again the next day.
I tried to ignore the signs.
The way his tail wag slowed when I came home. The way he hesitated before stepping into the crate each morning, ears drooping a little lower. The way he’d peer at me from behind the bars, as if he was silently pleading, Don’t go. Don’t leave me here again.
But I still left.
One evening, I found him just sitting there after I opened the crate door. Normally, he’d bolt out, do a little excited dance, and run to fetch his toy. This time, he barely moved. Just stared at me, then glanced at the back door, then looked down at his paws.
It was like he’d lost hope that I’d actually take him outside for anything more than a five-minute bathroom break. In that moment, I felt a punch of guilt so strong I almost sank to the floor. I wanted to explain everything to him, to let him know that I wasn’t doing this to be cruel, that I loved him with all my heart.
But he’s a dog, and I can’t just say, “Milo, I’m under so much pressure, I can barely think straight. This is just what I have to do right now, and I’m sorry.”
He wouldn’t understand my words. He only understands my actions.
The longer this went on, the more I noticed little changes in him. He used to be so lively, bounding around the living room, chasing after his squeaky toys, bringing them to me at night to beg for one more round of fetch. Now he just rests his chin on his paws, letting out a soft whine when I walk past.
The truth is, I miss our old life too. I miss the days when we’d wake up early and jog around the block together, the way he’d sniff every mailbox and wag his tail at passing neighbors. I miss watching him sprawl out in the sun on lazy Sunday afternoons. I miss the trust in his eyes.
Now, whenever I even look in his direction, I see a mix of confusion and sadness. Like he’s wondering what happened to the person who used to love him so wholeheartedly. And I’m left wondering the same thing.
I tell myself I’m doing what’s best, that I’m keeping him safe. But is this really safer? Sure, there are no more chewed-up shoes or frantic phone calls to the fire department. But there’s a piece of me that knows Milo is losing something much more precious: his spirit, his sense of wonder, his playful nature that made everyone who met him smile.
In the back of my mind, I keep thinking about the moment I decided to get a dog in the first place. I promised myself I’d never neglect him, that I’d give him the best life I could. And now, I’m not living up to that promise.
The turning point came last week, when I noticed that Milo’s appetite was dropping. He left half his bowl untouched. Normally, he’s a voracious eater, practically inhaling his kibble as soon as I set it down. But that night, he just nudged it around, ate a few bites, then slunk back into the crate—even though I’d left the door open.
He chose to stay in there, and that hit me hard.
It was like he had lost the will to roam free in the house. He was confining himself, maybe because that cramped little space was the only place that felt truly his anymore. That was the moment I realized I had to make a change.
But how?
It’s not like I can wave a magic wand and suddenly reduce my workload. Bills still need to be paid, responsibilities can’t just be ignored. But what I can do is make more of an effort—schedule short walks in the morning, maybe hire a dog walker or ask a neighbor to check in on him during the day. Something to give him a taste of the outside world again, to let him feel the sun on his fur and the grass under his paws.
So I made a plan.
A plan that, admittedly, I’m struggling to stick to. But I’m trying.
I set my alarm 30 minutes earlier to walk him before I leave for work. I asked a friend who works nearby to drop by and let Milo out for a bit around lunchtime. And I vowed to dedicate at least an hour each evening to him—whether that means a walk in the park or just a romp around the yard.
It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.
Yesterday was our first real outing in what feels like forever. I took him to a quiet corner of the park, away from the main path where there were too many distractions. At first, he seemed uncertain, sniffing hesitantly at the grass like he’d forgotten what it felt like. But after a few minutes, he started perking up. He even broke into a run, pulling me along with him in one spontaneous burst of energy that made me laugh harder than I have in weeks.
Watching him frolic in the sunlight, I felt this surge of hope. Like maybe I can still fix this. Maybe I can still be the person he deserves. I know I have a long way to go—I’m not going to pretend that one afternoon in the park undoes weeks of neglect. But it’s a step.
And that’s where we stand right now.
I’m still dealing with the hectic days, the never-ending tasks, the phone calls and meetings that seem to multiply like rabbits. Milo is still spending more time in his crate than I’d like. I still feel that twang of guilt every time I close that latch in the morning. But I’m starting to see a light at the end of the tunnel.
I want to believe that soon, the crate will go back to being just a sleeping spot or a safe den for him to hang out in occasionally, rather than a place I need to put him. I want to believe that he’ll trust me enough again to leap into my arms when I come home. I want to believe that we’ll both rediscover that joy we used to share every time I opened the door and said, “Let’s go outside, boy!”
There’s a chance I might fail. There’s a chance life will keep getting in the way, that I’ll stumble and revert to old habits. But there’s also a chance—maybe even a good chance—that things will keep improving. That each day, he’ll spend a little less time cooped up, and a little more time basking in the sunlight.
Milo’s lying next to me right now, outside the crate for once, with his head resting on my foot. It’s a small act of trust, but it feels monumental. Every now and then, he looks up at me with those big, hopeful eyes. Like he’s saying, Thank you for trying. Please keep trying.
I’m going to do everything I can to make sure those eyes stay hopeful.
And one day—maybe sooner than I expect—I’ll open that crate door and he won’t even hesitate to come out and join me.
No, we’re not there yet. But for the first time in a long time, I believe we can get there.
That hope is enough to keep me going.