I never imagined I’d be in a position like this.
I’m the sort of person who’s always viewed dogs as family—no ifs, ands, or buts. I grew up in a home where our dog was allowed on the couch (to my mom’s annoyance), on the bed (to my dad’s dismay), and basically anywhere he wanted to roam. So, when I met my fiancé, I guess I assumed we’d be on the same page about animals. We talked about everything from financial goals to dream vacations, so I figured something as basic as “Can the dog come inside?” would be obvious.
I was so, so wrong.
Let me back up for a minute.
About three months ago, my fiancé and I made the decision to move in together. We’d been together for a bit over a year, but things felt serious enough that we talked about sharing a place. He was the one who actually suggested it, pointing out that we were practically living at each other’s apartments anyway. Plus, with our wedding on the horizon, we both felt it was time to combine households and routines. I was excited… at first. My fiancé has a good sense of humor, he’s great at planning dates, and we’d never really fought about anything major before.
And then, there’s Andre—my dog, my best friend, my constant companion. He’s a medium-sized, curly-haired boy with a face that makes him look perpetually happy. I rescued him from a shelter when he was a tiny pup, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. Through breakups, job changes, family drama, Andre’s always been the one consistent, comforting presence in my life. He’s the dog that nuzzles your face when you’re crying, leans on your leg when you’re cooking in the kitchen, and greets you with so much enthusiasm it’s like you’ve been gone a century instead of just an hour or two. You get the picture: he’s my heart.
Now, I’ll admit I knew my fiancé came from a different background. He grew up on a rural property where dogs were strictly outdoor animals—guard dogs, farm dogs, that sort of thing. He told me a few stories about how his parents raised their pups in big outdoor kennels and never let them inside. But I brushed that aside, thinking, “He’s moved to the city now, he’ll adapt.”
At first, it seemed like he did. When I would bring Andre over to his place, he didn’t make a fuss. Sure, he’d occasionally mention dog hair or sigh if Andre tried to hop on the couch, but I always took that as normal slight annoyances that come with living with a pet. Nothing that raised a serious red flag. He even gave Andre little head pats sometimes, which I interpreted as a sign that everything was fine.
Then, about a week after we officially moved in together, I came home from grocery shopping and noticed something off. The apartment was quiet—too quiet. Usually, Andre is the first to greet me, bounding up to me with a toy in his mouth, tail wagging like crazy. But this time, no Andre. I called his name, got no response, and my heart started doing that weird panic flutter. I headed toward the back door, and there he was, standing in the yard, fur lightly dusted with bits of snow, looking miserable.
My fiancé was in the living room, scrolling through his phone. When I asked him what was going on, he just shrugged and said, “Dogs belong outside. My parents always kept ’em out.” I couldn’t believe it. In that moment, I thought maybe he was joking or had some random reason for it—like Andre had an accident or was muddy. But nope. He was dead serious.
That began a cycle I never expected to endure.
Every day, I’d find some version of the same scenario. Andre outside, tail drooping, eyes looking into the house through the glass door, trying to figure out why he’s been banished. Every time I marched up to my fiancé and demanded to know why, he’d repeat the same dismissive line: “He’s fine. Dogs are meant to be outside.” I’d argue back, sometimes rationally, sometimes angrily. “Andre is house-trained,” I’d say. “He doesn’t want to stay out there in the cold. He’s part of my family. Why are you locking him out?”
My fiancé would respond with something like, “You’re being dramatic,” or “He’s an animal, not a baby.” At first, I thought I could reason with him, maybe get him to see things from my perspective. I tried explaining how dogs need social interaction, how Andre has been an indoor dog his entire life, how it’s not just about temperature but about companionship. He’d stare at me like I was speaking another language, or he’d roll his eyes and say, “You’re overreacting.”
And that’s how the conflict escalated, slowly but steadily. I felt like every conversation ended in frustration. He’d accuse me of being obsessed with Andre, and I’d accuse him of being heartless. We’d then sit in angry silence, neither of us willing to budge.
The truly infuriating part is how my fiancé seems so casual about it all. I’ll come home and see Andre outside, shivering because it’s freezing or raining, and he’ll be inside, completely unfazed. If I try to let Andre in, my fiancé will sigh dramatically and ask why I can’t just accept that dogs don’t need to be coddled. Sometimes I think he actually believes he’s “toughening” Andre up, as if that’s a necessity. But it’s not like we live on a farm where a dog’s job is to patrol acreage for intruders. We have a small suburban yard. There’s no reason for him to be out there alone, day in and day out.
I’ve tried to make compromises. I suggested that maybe we set specific times for outside play, or that we only keep Andre out when the weather’s mild and we’re home to supervise. But my fiancé just keeps repeating, “Dogs belong outside,” like some mantra he’s sworn by since childhood. It’s maddening. It feels like I’m talking to a brick wall. I can see the confusion in Andre’s eyes, too, which breaks my heart even more. He just stands there at the sliding door, wagging his tail in this hesitant, half-hearted way, waiting for permission to come back in. Watching him stare at us like that has made me cry more times than I care to admit.
My friends and family are equally stunned. My best friend told me point-blank, “That’s not normal, you know,” and it stuck with me. Because it really isn’t. I mean, I’ve certainly heard of dogs being outside dogs, but Andre’s never been one of them. He’s definitely not prepared for harsh weather or for complete isolation. Plus, he’s a total people-pleaser. He thrives on attention and being around us—especially me. Now that he’s forced to be alone outside, I can see his temperament changing. He’s becoming more anxious, skittish, less confident overall. And I feel powerless to fix it.
I’ve had serious talks with my fiancé about how his actions are affecting not just Andre, but me as well. I’ve tried to explain that we could be damaging our dog’s emotional well-being, that dogs can get depressed or develop behavioral issues if they’re continually isolated. He’s insisted I’m “projecting human emotions onto a dog,” and that I just need to calm down. Every time I bring it up, he makes me feel like I’m the one being irrational. And yet, I can’t shake the gut feeling that this is outright wrong.
That feeling only got stronger last week. I came home later than usual, around 9 p.m., because of a work emergency. It was pitch-dark outside, temperatures dropping below freezing. I stepped through the front door, and the house was still. Quiet. I called for Andre. No response. My stomach sank. Sure enough, I found him outside, curled up in a corner near the sliding door, shivering so badly I could see his entire body shaking. There was a layer of frost on the grass, for crying out loud. I raced to let him in, and he stumbled a little from being so stiff. I wrapped him in a blanket and rushed to check him for any signs of injury or frostbite. My fiancé was upstairs, oblivious or unconcerned, I’m not sure which. When I confronted him, he just said, “Dogs survive outside all the time. He’s fine.”
I lost it. I shouted about how irresponsible he was, about how Andre could’ve gotten sick or worse. He didn’t back down, though. He just kept telling me to take a deep breath and relax, as if I was the problem. We ended up slamming separate doors, going into different rooms for the night. I didn’t speak to him until the next morning, and even then, the conversation was superficial. Neither of us has resolved anything.
Now, I’m at a crossroads. I love my fiancé—at least, I thought I did. We have so many plans: a wedding in the works, potential honeymoon destinations, thoughts about buying a house in the future. But this issue with Andre is stirring up fears that maybe, at our core, we’re just not compatible. Because I can’t imagine a future where I have to battle every day just to ensure my dog isn’t locked outside in the cold. And I’m furious that the man I’m supposed to marry won’t acknowledge the cruelty of it. If he can’t extend compassion to Andre, can he extend compassion to me when I’m vulnerable?
I keep telling myself maybe he’ll wake up one day and realize how wrong this is. But each passing day with Andre sitting outside in the snow or rain erodes that hope. I’ve tried everything from calm discussions to heated arguments, from logical points about dog welfare to emotional pleas. Nothing has moved him an inch. He’s stuck in the mindset that “dogs belong outside,” and that I’m merely being overly sentimental.
Sometimes, I walk outside, close the sliding door, and sit with Andre in the cold, just to let him know he’s not alone. I can see the gratitude in his eyes when I’m there, and it makes me simultaneously warm inside and furious at my fiancé. Because I shouldn’t have to choose between my partner and my dog—or feel like my dog is basically living a life of exile in his own home.
I’ve had nightmares about this. Literally. I’ve dreamed that I come home and Andre is gone, wandering the streets because someone left him outside, and he found an opening in the fence or got lost. I jolt awake in a panic, rushing to check if he’s still around. This stress is wearing on me more than I like to admit. I haven’t told my fiancé about these nightmares because I’m sure he’d just say, “You’re overreacting, as usual.”
But am I?
Because in my heart, I know I’m not. I know that what’s happening is cruel, and I know Andre deserves better. I’ve always believed we’re responsible for the animals we choose to bring into our homes, and that we owe them safety, comfort, and affection. Watching my fiancé treat Andre like some disposable accessory is beyond hurtful. It’s making me question everything I thought I knew about the man I planned to marry.
And that’s where I’m at: stuck between a life I’ve spent years building and the moral line I just can’t cross. I’m not sure what to do next or how to fix this. If a person can’t show empathy toward a loving, loyal animal, what does that say about them in the long run? And how can I promise forever to someone who shrugs off my heartbreak as being “dramatic”?
I wish I had answers. Right now, I’m just angry, confused, and protective of Andre. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, peering into an uncertain future. Every time I look at Andre’s hopeful little face, I know I can’t keep doing this forever. But I also fear walking away from a relationship that, up until now, seemed to be everything I wanted.
All I know is something has to give, and soon.
Because I can’t stand another day of seeing Andre locked out in the cold, staring at me with those sad eyes while my fiancé pretends it’s no big deal.
I have no idea how this will end… but I can’t ignore it anymore. And if he won’t change, I might have to make a choice that breaks my heart in a whole different way.