Hey everyone,
I’m not sure how to start this, but I’ve been feeling really overwhelmed lately and just need to get it off my chest. I know this might sound strange—like, who even thinks their dog can feel unloved or judged for their weight? But I swear I can see it in her eyes. It’s like she’s apologizing for being who she is, and it breaks my heart.
I adopted my dog about five years ago, back when she was still a goofy puppy. She was the last in her litter to be picked, and the people at the shelter said it was because she was “too big-boned” for a puppy. At first, I thought that was just a silly reason. I mean, a puppy is a puppy, right? They’re all adorable and deserving of a home. But apparently, some people can be incredibly picky.
The day I brought her home was one of the happiest days of my life. She was so excited to explore every inch of the house, sniff every corner, claim every cushion as her own. She never once acted like she didn’t belong. And I guess, over the years, I grew to think that she’d never feel out of place anywhere—she just had that unstoppable, joyful energy.
But now, I see her lying on the rug, her eyes droopy, her tail wagging just a little less. I know something’s wrong. It’s not like she can just tell me with words, “I feel ugly” or “I feel unloved.” But there’s this heavy sadness in her gaze. Whenever I try to get her up for a walk, she seems hesitant. She’ll look at me like, “Are you sure you want me to come along?” And if we do go on a walk, she tires out quickly, like her body’s heavier than it should be. Sometimes she’ll stop halfway, stare at me with those big eyes, and I swear I can see a flicker of shame—like she thinks she’s letting me down.
I’ve been reading a lot of articles lately about dog obesity and how it can affect their joints, their energy, even their mood. But it’s not just that she’s gained a few pounds; it’s like her spirit is deflated. I’ve tried everything: portion control, more frequent but shorter walks, playing fetch inside on rainy days, even consulting with a vet about a specialized diet. The weight is slowly coming off, but the self-consciousness (I don’t even know if that’s the right word for a dog) is still there.
And here’s the thing that hurts me the most: I feel like it’s partially my fault. I mean, I’m the one who gives her treats. I’m the one who thought it was cute when she’d beg for scraps at the dinner table. I’m the one who might’ve neglected a walk or two when I was tired from work. Now, seeing her this way, it’s like all of those little moments add up into one big question: “Did I do this to her?”
I feel guilty, but also determined to help her. Yet, there’s this little voice in my head that keeps asking if I’m overreacting. Like, is it possible that she’s just getting older, and I’m projecting my own fears onto her? Or is there really a sense of shame in her eyes when she struggles to get up or when she flops down on the couch, exhausted, after just a few minutes of play?
I can’t help but remember the first time she jumped into my lap as a puppy. She was so confident and carefree. She didn’t care if she knocked over a pillow or if her belly was a little round. Now, she carefully tiptoes around furniture, as if she’s worried about making a mess. She doesn’t leap onto the sofa without first giving me this look that says, “Is this okay? Do you still want me up there?”
I’ve posted on a few dog-lover forums before, but I’ve never really poured my heart out like this. Most of the time, people respond with, “Just get her to lose weight,” or “Try a better dog food.” But they don’t see the emotional side of it. They don’t see her cowering in the corner when she hears the word “treat,” as if she’s done something wrong. They don’t see the way she shrinks away from other dogs at the park, like she’s embarrassed to be around them.
It’s gotten to the point where my friends are telling me I’m anthropomorphizing her too much—that dogs don’t actually feel shame or guilt in the way humans do. And maybe they’re right. But I know my dog. I’ve spent countless hours curled up next to her, petting her soft fur, looking into those soulful eyes. I can’t just dismiss what I see as me “imagining” it. There’s a sadness there. A kind of loneliness that tugs at my heart every time she sighs heavily and rests her head on her paws.
I’ll be honest: part of me feels like a terrible owner. Sometimes I wonder if she’d be happier with someone who has more energy to exercise her properly, or more discipline not to cave in to her puppy-dog eyes when she begs for snacks. But then I think about how she curls up next to me at night, how she seems to relax when I’m reading on the couch and she’s resting her head on my lap. That has to mean something, right?
Recently, I started a new routine. Every morning, before I leave for work, I take her for a short walk around the block—just 10 minutes or so. Then in the evening, I try to do a longer walk if I have time, or at least some kind of fetch or tug-of-war session. I’ve switched to healthier treats—carrot sticks, apple slices, and the occasional piece of plain chicken breast. And she seems to appreciate it, at least physically. She’s a bit more active, and I can see she’s lost a tiny bit of weight.
But the biggest change is that I’ve started talking to her like she understands everything I say. I’ll say, “You’re not too fat, you’re perfect. We just need to get healthy together.” And I’ll sit on the floor with her and rub her belly, and tell her how much I love her. It might sound silly, but sometimes she’ll let out a soft sigh that sounds like relief. Other times, she’ll press her nose against my arm, and I take that as her way of saying, “Thank you.”
Despite all of this, there’s still that lingering feeling in the air: the feeling that she thinks she’s not good enough. I don’t know how to chase that away. I wish I could snap my fingers and show her how loved she really is. Show her that she doesn’t have to be ashamed of her body, that she’s still the same wonderful creature who stole my heart five years ago.
There was one particularly rough night last week. I came home late from work, exhausted and stressed, and found her lying by the door, looking up at me with this mixture of worry and sadness. I was in such a bad mood that I barely acknowledged her, just dropped my keys and mumbled something about needing to shower. She followed me into the bathroom and sat by the door. Usually, she’d wag her tail or try to lick my hand, but she just sat there quietly. After my shower, I realized how distant I’d been. I felt this surge of guilt, like I was letting her down. I wrapped myself in a towel, knelt down, and whispered, “I’m sorry, girl. I’m so sorry.” I swear I felt tears welling up in my eyes, and I don’t cry easily. She leaned in, licked my cheek, and laid her head on my shoulder. In that moment, I felt like she was comforting me more than I was comforting her.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m in this weird place where I’m torn between hope and guilt. Hope, because I see glimpses of her old self when we’re playing or cuddling, and guilt, because I feel responsible for letting her get to a point where she might feel unloved or unhappy.
I’ve been thinking about enrolling in a dog fitness class, or maybe finding a canine exercise group in my area. Something that would let her socialize with other dogs who might be dealing with similar issues. Maybe seeing other dogs with a little extra fluff will help her realize she’s not alone. Or maybe it’ll just be good for both of us to get out and move more.
Anyway, I’m not looking for a perfect solution right now. I don’t even know if I’ll ever find one. But I do know that I love my dog more than anything, and I refuse to let her feel unloved or unwanted just because she’s carrying some extra pounds. I want her to feel safe, secure, and confident—like she did when she was a pup who didn’t have a care in the world.
I’m not sure how this will end. Maybe in a few months, she’ll be healthier, happier, and I’ll look back on this post and smile at how worried I was. Or maybe it’ll be a longer journey than I expect, with ups and downs, triumphs and setbacks. But I do know that as long as she’s by my side, I’ll keep trying. I’ll keep loving her, no matter what.
So that’s where I’m at: stuck between guilt, hope, and a fierce desire to make things right. I don’t have a neat conclusion or some grand success story to share. But I’m determined to fight for her happiness, and maybe in the process, I’ll find some peace of mind for myself, too.
Thanks for reading. If anyone else has been in a similar situation—whether it’s with a dog, cat, or any beloved pet—just know that you’re not alone. I’m right there with you, figuring it out day by day.
And maybe, just maybe, we’ll come out on the other side stronger and more grateful than ever.