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The day I brought ΡΞΉΡan home, I was handed a list of facts. A list of warnings, really. βGerman Shepherds are working dogs,β they said. βTheyβre tough. Highly intelligent. Protective to the bone. They donβt need to be babied.β I nodded politely, trying to look like I knew what I was getting into. But what I didnβt know β what they couldnβt have prepared me for β was just how wrong they were.
From the moment ΡΞΉΡan walked through the door, he looked at me like I was home. Not the house. Not the couch. Me. And within the first hour, this supposed aloof guardian of the breed curled up right in my lap, all 90 pounds of him β clumsy paws, sharp ears, and a look in his eyes like he had just been waiting for me to sit still long enough for him to rest his whole heart in my arms.
He was a rescue, and in a way, so was I.
They said ΡΞΉΡan had been through a lot before me. Abandonment. A cold kennel. Days when his only company was the barking of others like him β lost, misunderstood, waiting. And yet, when I opened the car door that first day, he didnβt hesitate. He climbed in, sat beside me like he belonged there, and gave a single, quiet sigh. As if to say, βFinally.β
From that day on, he followed me everywhere. From room to room. Step for step. He sat at my feet when I worked, waited outside the bathroom door, and stared at me like the sun might rise from my hands. Fierce? Maybe. But the only thing heβs ever been aggressive about is making sure I donβt leave the room without him.
Heβs not a lap dog.
But he climbs into my lap like heβs trying to protect the heartbeat he trusts most in the world.
Thatβs the thing no one tells you about dogs like ΡΞΉΡan. Theyβre built like tanks, trained like soldiers, but inside? Theyβre made of soft things β hope, loyalty, longing. A need so deep to belong to someone that when they find their person, they hold on like itβs the last thing keeping the earth from spinning away.
I named him ΡΞΉΡan because I thought heβd be strong. I thought the name would suit his size, his bark, his build. But I didnβt realize until much later that the name really belonged to his heart. Because yes, there is strength in him. But thereβs also gentleness. Humility. The kind of love that kneels beside you when youβre broken and doesnβt ask for anything but your company.
In a world that tells us to be hard, he reminds me to stay soft.
He senses moods. Picks up on silences. When Iβm quiet too long, he nudges my hand. When I cry, he presses his head into my chest. When I laugh, his tail becomes a whip of joy, thumping against walls, furniture, anything within reach.
To anyone who has never had a big dog β I mean a big dog β curl up in your lap, let me tell you this: itβs not about size. Itβs about surrender. Itβs about trust. ΡΞΉΡan doesnβt climb into my lap because itβs comfortable. He climbs in because in a world full of noise, he wants to be as close to the one quiet place that makes him feel safe.
Me.
And in return, heβs become the one place where I feel safe.
He doesnβt just guard the house. He guards my heart.
He doesnβt just keep watch. He keeps faith.
And that kind of faith? That blind, fearless belief that I am worth loving? You donβt find it every day.
I remember one night during a storm β thunder loud enough to shake the windows. I woke to find him already sitting at the edge of my bed, eyes alert, ears perked. He wasnβt afraid. He was watching me, ready. Ready to stand between me and anything the sky might throw down. I reached for him, and he leaned in, steady as a mountain. Thatβs who he is. Not just a dog, but a guardian. A soul tethered to mine by something deeper than instinct.
You see, dogs like ΡΞΉΡan arenβt just pets. Theyβre companions in the truest sense of the word. They donβt just live in our homes β they live in our hearts. They memorize the rhythm of our steps, the tone of our voices, the meaning behind our sighs. They know when we need space and when we need company. And they never β ever β turn their backs on us.
Some nights, I sit on the floor with him and just breathe. No words. No phone. Just presence. He lays his head on my knee and exhales like the world has finally quieted down enough to just be. And I think to myself: this is love. No conditions. No performance. Just showing up, day after day, for each other.
Sometimes I worry about how short their lives are. I think of the years pα΄ssing faster than Iβd like. I look at the gray starting to creep around his muzzle and feel that ache in my throat β the one that whispers, βSomeday, he wonβt be here.β But I push it aside. Because today, he is here. Today, I get to hold him, walk with him, laugh at his goofy spins when he sees the leash, and feel his head against my hand when the world feels too heavy.
ΡΞΉΡan doesnβt know about tomorrow. He lives for now.
And loving him has taught me to do the same.
The truth is, ΡΞΉΡan changed me. He made me softer in a world that tries to harden us. He made me loyal in a world that prizes convenience. He made me stay when all I wanted was to run. And in return, heβs never once asked me to be anything other than exactly who I am.
Thatβs the beauty of dogs. They donβt care what you do for a living, what you wear, who you know, or what mistakes youβve made. They care about how you treat them. How you love them. How often you stop to sit with them when they need you.
ΡΞΉΡan reminds me, every single day, that presence matters more than perfection.
He is not just a pet. He is not just a βworking dog.β
He is my mirror. My teacher. My quiet, four-legged proof that love is not something you earn β itβs something you give, again and again, with every beat of your heart.
So to anyone who says big dogs arenβt affectionate, I say this:
Come sit beside me. Let 90 pounds of pure devotion climb into your lap, curl into your soul, and remind you what it means to be truly loved.
And when you feel that weight β not just of his body, but of his trust β press against you, maybe then youβll understand:
Heβs not just a dog.
Heβs everything good this world still has to offer.
