I’ve been sitting on my couch for the last hour, just staring at my phone, replaying the events of the day in my head. My heart feels heavy, and I can’t shake the sense of guilt creeping in. I brought this adorable, fluffy little puppy home thinking I was doing something wonderful for both of us. I wanted a companion—someone to greet me at the door, wagging a tiny tail, full of excitement. And for the first week, that’s exactly what happened.
He’d bound across the room on his stubby legs, nearly tripping over his own fluff. He’d wiggle his little body so hard that he’d sometimes topple over. I named him Milo because it felt playful and sweet, just like he was. And I assumed everyone else would see him the same way—an adorable ball of fluff who just wants to lick your hand and snuggle up on your lap.
But… that’s not what happened.
The first sign something was off came from my neighbor, Ms. Harris. She’s usually friendly enough. She’s one of those neighbors who always has some baked goods to share, always waves at me from her porch, always compliments the landscaping (or my lack thereof). But when I proudly walked Milo over to her yard to say hello, she took one look at him and said, “Oh… that’s your new puppy?” in a tone that made my stomach sink.
Then she muttered something about him looking “scraggly,” like maybe he hadn’t been groomed or something. But he’s just a puppy. His fur is naturally a bit wild and puffy. I tried to brush it off, but it definitely left a sour taste in my mouth.
A few days later, I had some friends over for a small get-together. I was excited to show off Milo, and I thought they’d be thrilled to meet him. As soon as they walked in, he trotted up to them with his tail wagging a million miles an hour, trying to lick their ankles. One of my friends literally stepped back and said, “Ew, no thanks, buddy. I don’t do dog kisses,” and kind of scrunched up her nose.
I tried to laugh it off, but Milo’s little face drooped. He looked up at me like he was confused, like he couldn’t understand why this person didn’t want his affection. Then another friend, in what was supposed to be a joke, said, “I’ve seen cuter dogs. Sorry.” He tried to pass it off like it was no big deal, but I caught the look on Milo’s face again. It was like he understood he was being rejected.
Over the next few weeks, the comments kept rolling in from various people. I heard things like:
“He’s not exactly a show dog, is he?”
“Why is his fur so puffy in some places and flat in others?”
“Does he ever open his eyes all the way? They look kind of beady.”
Some were said jokingly, some were said in that passive-aggressive tone people use when they think they’re being helpful. But the common thread was clear: They didn’t think Milo was cute. And I started noticing a pattern—people would actively avoid letting him lick them. They’d recoil or make a face. A few times, someone even said, “Aww, no kisses, sorry,” like it was the worst thing in the world for a puppy to show affection.
At first, I tried to shrug it off. I mean, who cares what other people think, right? I love him. He’s my dog. He’s sweet and playful, and he’s brought me so much joy in such a short time. But it’s hard to ignore the repeated negativity. And, more importantly, Milo is starting to notice.
I’m not making this up. He’s a puppy, sure, but animals sense rejection. He used to run up to every new person, tongue out, tail wagging, like they were a long-lost friend. Now, he hesitates. He’ll take a few steps forward, then slow down and wait. It’s like he’s trying to gauge whether this person is going to welcome him or push him away.
It’s heartbreaking to see that shift in behavior, especially in a dog so young.
I know some people might say, “He’s just a dog, he’ll get over it,” or “You’re being too sensitive.” But I can’t help feeling protective of him. He’s depending on me to navigate the world for him, to show him it’s a safe and loving place. And right now, I’m failing at that. I see the sadness in his eyes when someone turns away or makes a snide comment about his appearance. He doesn’t understand why they won’t let him lick their hand. He doesn’t understand that some people just aren’t into dogs, or that they have preconceived notions about what a “cute” dog should look like.
The worst part is, I’m starting to question whether I’ve done something wrong. Did I pick the wrong breed? Did I neglect grooming him properly? Am I just too biased to see that maybe he isn’t conventionally cute? The spiral of self-doubt is relentless. I even caught myself googling “how to make my puppy look cuter” the other night, which is ridiculous and sad all at once.
I don’t want to turn him into some Instagram-perfect dog with bows and fancy outfits just to appease strangers. But part of me worries that if I don’t, he’ll keep facing these negative reactions, and his confidence (yes, dogs have confidence too) will continue to plummet.
I tried to talk to a friend about this, and she basically told me I was being overdramatic. She said, “He’s a dog, not a person. He doesn’t have self-esteem issues.” But that’s where I disagree. Animals might not think in the exact same way humans do, but they definitely feel emotions. They can feel fear, excitement, anxiety, and, in my opinion, they can sense rejection. Especially a puppy, who’s just starting to form his impressions of the world.
Then there’s the other side of the coin: Maybe it’s not about how he looks, but more about the licking. Some people just don’t like dog kisses. That’s fair. But the things people say about his appearance tell me otherwise. It’s like they’re piling on all these criticisms—“He’s not cute, he’s weird-looking, he’s too scruffy”—and the licking is just the icing on the cake. It’s like they don’t even want to give him a chance because he doesn’t fit their idea of an adorable, Instagram-worthy puppy.
I keep telling myself that this is just a phase. Puppies grow, their fur changes, their features mature. Maybe in a few months, people will find him “cuter.” But then I feel guilty for even thinking that way, because why does it matter what they think? Shouldn’t my love for him be enough?
But we live in a world where people’s opinions can influence so much, even how you feel about your own pet. I can’t deny that it stings to see my puppy get treated like he’s somehow less deserving of affection just because he’s not a perfect little fluff-ball with giant eyes. And I worry that if this keeps happening, he’ll develop fear or anxiety around people.
I tried taking him to a puppy socialization class, hoping he’d have positive interactions with other dogs and dog lovers. For the most part, it was great. The trainer was kind and patient, and Milo got to play with a couple of other puppies who didn’t care what he looked like. But there was this one woman who kept picking up her little Pomeranian every time Milo came near. She’d say, “No, no, sweetheart,” and clutch her dog like Milo was some kind of monster.
It took all my self-control not to snap at her. Because the look on Milo’s face when he got rejected again was almost too much to bear. He just stood there, tail lowered, unsure of what he did wrong. Eventually, he walked away and tried playing with another puppy, but I could see the confusion in his eyes. That woman might have had her reasons—maybe her puppy was shy or had a bad experience—but the end result was another rejection for Milo.
Now, I’m at a crossroads. I’m trying to figure out how to handle all of this emotionally, and how to help Milo develop a healthy sense of security. I don’t want him to become timid or aggressive because people keep turning him away. I’ve started looking up tips on building a dog’s confidence, which is something I never thought I’d have to do for a puppy. Usually, puppies are naturally fearless and curious, right?
But here I am, searching for ways to reassure him that he’s safe and loved, no matter what anyone else says or does. I’ve been giving him extra playtime, extra treats, and I try to bring him around people who I know will be gentle and welcoming. My sister, for instance, absolutely adores him. She lets him lick her face, even though she’s not a huge fan of puppy breath, because she knows how important it is for him to have positive interactions.
The thing is, I can’t protect him from everyone. I can’t force people to think he’s cute or to let him lick them. And I’m worried that as he grows older, the negative experiences will outnumber the good ones. What if he becomes a nervous dog who’s afraid of strangers? What if he starts barking at people who approach, or snapping because he anticipates rejection?
I know that might sound dramatic, but dogs pick up on patterns. They learn from repeated experiences. And right now, the pattern is that a lot of people recoil from him. That’s not the kind of life I want for him.
Sometimes I think about confronting the people who make rude comments, but then I worry I’ll just come off as oversensitive. Plus, I can’t exactly go around telling every stranger on the street, “Hey, don’t insult my dog’s looks.” That’s not realistic. So I’m stuck in this place where I’m trying to shield him from negativity without becoming a hermit who never leaves the house.
And that’s the worst part: feeling powerless. I can’t change his fur texture or his face shape. And I shouldn’t have to. He’s perfect to me. But I can’t lie—seeing him sad when someone calls him “ugly” or pulls their hand away from his kisses breaks my heart in ways I didn’t know were possible.
So here I am, typing this out while he snoozes at my feet. He looks peaceful right now, completely unaware that I’m stressing about how the world perceives him. I wish I could keep him in this little bubble of safety forever, but that’s not how life works. We have to face people, we have to face comments, and we have to figure out how to cope.
I don’t have a neat, tidy resolution to share. I’m still stuck, wondering how to help my puppy navigate a world that seems set on labeling him “not cute enough.” I’m torn between wanting to speak up every time someone makes a mean remark and wanting to just ignore it for the sake of my own sanity. I’m worried that no matter what I do, the damage might already be happening.
All I know is that he’s lying here next to me, breathing softly, and I love him more than I can put into words. If that’s not enough to shield him from other people’s judgments, I’m not sure what is.
And that’s the part that keeps me up at night: the realization that maybe love isn’t enough to protect him from all the cruelty out there.
I guess only time will tell if I can help him grow into a confident dog who believes he’s worthy of every lick, every wag, and every ounce of affection—no matter what anyone else says. But right now, I’m just not sure how this is going to end.