Okay, so here I am, feeling equal parts emotional and a little silly for even posting this. But I can’t shake off the feeling that something monumental happened this morning, all because my dog lifted his paw and I—like an absolute dork—tapped it right back.
I guess I should start by saying that my dog isn’t “just a dog.” That’s something I never expected to admit out loud, because I used to think of pets as accessories or additions, but never quite on the same level as actual human family. Don’t get me wrong, I always liked animals and all, but the notion that a dog could be “family” was, to me, more of a warm, fuzzy saying than an actual truth.
Until I ended up with Charlie.
And now, I can’t imagine my life without him.
Let me backtrack a bit.
I adopted Charlie a year ago, almost to the day. It was a weird time in my life. I’d recently moved to a new city, hoping to land my dream job, but that plan fell through in the most spectacularly disappointing way. My mother was also going through a tough health scare, and I couldn’t just move back home and be there for her because of all these financial obligations I had. Meanwhile, I was stuck in this tiny apartment, living off cheap microwave meals, constantly refreshing my email inbox for any job leads.
In the middle of all that, a friend of mine sent me a photo of this scruffy, wide-eyed pup who needed a home. Something about his face—maybe the tilt of his head, or the bright, expectant look in his eyes—just made me think: “Why not?” I’d never adopted a dog before. I’d never even owned a goldfish. But I felt compelled. It was one of those decisions that you make in a split second and hope you don’t regret.
So I went to meet him.
He was nervous. So was I. He wouldn’t stop trembling, and I was worried that maybe I was doing the wrong thing. I remember being so paranoid about whether I had the right kind of apartment for him, the right schedule, the right bank account to afford everything a dog needs. But the moment he curled up in my lap, I just knew: I had to take him home.
The first few months were rough. There’s no other way to put it.
Charlie had separation anxiety. I didn’t know how to handle it. Every time I left the apartment for even half an hour, he’d bark and scratch at the door, as if the world were ending. My neighbors complained. I tried different techniques—crates, baby gates, leaving the TV on, leaving my sweatshirt with him, you name it. Nothing worked.
I also struggled with my own anxiety. I wasn’t sleeping well. I kept having nightmares about my mom’s diagnosis, about losing my finances, about failing to be the person I wanted to be. Sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, feeling alone and lost in a big city that didn’t seem to care.
But every single morning, Charlie was there, wagging his tail like he was genuinely happy to see me. And in a way, that small gesture started to feel like an anchor. No matter how tough the night had been, no matter how many job rejections I’d faced the day before, Charlie would greet me with that same unconditional enthusiasm.
One day, I was sitting on the couch, just idly scrolling through social media, half-reading people’s motivational posts. I came across one that said something like, “If you think dogs are family, give them a high five.” It was a silly meme. But I looked over at Charlie, and he was staring at me like he was waiting for me to do something interesting.
So I lifted my hand.
He tilted his head, then tentatively lifted his paw.
I tapped it.
He wagged his tail so hard I thought he might knock over the coffee table. It was so simple, so silly, but it felt like a real moment. Like we’d just reached some new level of communication. In that moment, I wasn’t just an anxious, semi-depressed adult with a mountain of worries. I was a friend, a companion, someone worthy of a high five.
Now fast-forward to this morning. Charlie and I have been through so much in the past year—my mom’s health scare turned out to be less severe than we feared, which was a huge relief. I managed to land a decent job that pays the bills (not my dream job, but I’m not complaining). My neighbors have grown fond of Charlie, partly because I learned how to manage his separation anxiety, and partly because he’s such a sweetheart that people can’t help but like him.
But life is never without complications, right?
I recently discovered a massive financial issue that I’d overlooked—basically, I’d co-signed on a loan for a friend, and that friend defaulted. I’m not going to go into all the details here, but let’s just say that my friend is out of the picture, and I’m left with the debt. It’s stressful. The kind of stress that makes you question every choice you’ve made in the last decade.
Last night, I got a phone call from the loan company, and it wasn’t pretty. They were polite but firm, telling me that I had to figure out a payment plan immediately or face the consequences. I hung up feeling completely overwhelmed. I wanted to call someone—my mom, a friend, anyone—but it was late, and I felt too ashamed to talk about it. I sat on my couch, staring at the wall, wondering how I’d managed to let this happen.
That’s when I felt a nudge on my leg.
It was Charlie.
He’d been quietly resting on his dog bed, but I guess he could sense that something was off. He came over, rested his chin on my knee, and just stared up at me with those big, soulful eyes of his. I lost it. I started crying—like, actual, messy tears. I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t hold it together in front of my own dog, which is such a weird thing to be embarrassed about, but there you go.
Charlie just stayed there, looking at me with so much empathy (I know some people think that’s just anthropomorphizing, but I swear, he looked concerned). After a few minutes, I gave him a small smile, trying to reassure him that I was okay. And then, almost on instinct, I lifted my hand. The same way I did when I saw that silly meme months ago.
He lifted his paw.
High five.
I know it sounds absurd, but that simple action made me feel less alone, less like I was trapped in this cycle of mistakes and regrets. For a second, I felt like everything was going to be okay, because at least I had this loyal companion who didn’t care about my credit score or my job title or my past decisions. He cared about me.
So why am I posting this here?
Because I genuinely want to know if anyone else has had a moment like this—something so small, yet so deeply significant that it shifts your perspective. I used to think I was so tough, so independent, and that I didn’t need anyone, let alone a dog. But now, the thought of living without Charlie feels… impossible. He’s family. Not in a superficial way, but in the truest sense of the word. He has seen me at my absolute worst—exhausted, broke, terrified—and he has never judged me for it.
But there’s also this nagging worry: what if something happens to him? I’ve read all those stories about how dogs don’t live as long as we do. And even though I’ve only had him for a year, the thought of losing him someday actually makes my chest hurt. Is it normal to feel this intensely about a pet?
I guess it’s the price you pay for loving something so wholeheartedly. You open yourself up to the possibility of heartbreak. But you also get the chance to experience a bond that’s pure and real and uncomplicated by the usual human dramas. Dogs don’t hold grudges or lie to you about loan repayments. They don’t care if you’re wearing the same sweatpants for the third day in a row. They just love you.
Anyway, this morning was another reminder that Charlie isn’t just a pet. He’s my support system. My little furry therapist. My family member who greets me with a wagging tail even when I feel like I don’t deserve it. And that high five? It was like our secret handshake, a quiet promise that we’re in this together, no matter what happens next.
I’m still freaking out about my financial situation. I’m not sure how I’m going to handle the debt. I might have to pick up a second job or cut back on some things I love. Maybe I’ll have to reach out to my mom for help, which I’ve been avoiding because she has her own medical bills and stress. It’s definitely not the scenario I envisioned for myself when I first moved here, bright-eyed and optimistic.
But in the midst of all that uncertainty, I have Charlie.
And for some reason, that makes the uncertainty a little more bearable.
I don’t know what the future holds. Maybe I’ll figure out a payment plan and dig myself out of this financial mess. Maybe my mom’s health will improve to the point where she can come visit us. Maybe I’ll even find that dream job someday. Or maybe life will continue throwing curveballs at me, and I’ll have to keep pivoting. Who knows?
But what I do know is that Charlie will be there, ready to offer me a high five whenever I need a reminder that I’m not alone. And that, right now, feels like enough to keep me going.
I guess I’m just posting this as a reminder to myself and anyone else who might need it: sometimes the smallest gestures—like a high five from your dog—can be the biggest sign that you’re going to be okay. It doesn’t solve everything, it doesn’t magically erase all your problems, but it gives you hope. And hope is the one thing you can never afford to lose.
So, yeah. “A high five if you think dogs are family.” That’s the phrase that kicked off this whole realization for me. I used to think it was just a cute slogan, but now I’m living proof that it’s so much more than that.
Dogs are family. At least, Charlie is my family. He’s my best friend, my anchor, my partner in crime. He’s the one who helps me greet each day with a little more optimism than I would have otherwise.
I’m not sure how everything’s going to turn out, and I’m not going to pretend that a simple high five fixed all my problems. It didn’t. But it gave me a spark of hope when I needed it the most.
And that’s why I’m sharing this story. Because maybe someone else out there is feeling hopeless and alone, and maybe they need to hear that a dog can change your life in ways you never expected. Or maybe they need a reason to believe that small moments matter.
I know they do.
I feel it every time Charlie and I tap our hands (and paws) together.
TL;DR: I used to think calling a dog “family” was just a sentimental cliché, but after adopting Charlie, I’ve realized he truly is family to me. Through financial struggles, job rejections, and health scares in my family, Charlie’s been the one constant source of unconditional love. A simple high five from him this morning reminded me that even though life is chaotic and uncertain, I’m not facing it alone. It hasn’t solved my problems, but it’s given me hope—and sometimes, that’s everything.
(Thanks for reading. If you’ve had a similar moment with your pet, I’d love to hear about it in the comments. I think we could all use a little more positivity in our lives.)