Fact Check Me: Dogs Are the Last Honest Thing We Have
To love a dog is to love something completely.
To be loved by a dog is to be loved completely.
Dogs never let you down —
and on the rare occasion they do, you have to forgive them.
Not out of sainthood, not out of moral obligation,
but because they live entirely on instinct.
Sometimes it gets the better of them.
But that same instinct is what makes them love their humans
with a kind of purity the rest of us can barely recognize anymore.
They protect if they can, lean when they must,
and ask for almost nothing in return.
Feed them.
Rub their bellies.
Give them a place to sleep.
That’s the whole contract.
The easiest one you’ll ever sign.
There are no conditions on a dog’s love.
None.
They don’t bargain.
They don’t negotiate the terms.
They don’t withhold affection to make a point.
Humans love with rules.
Dogs love with truth.
You don’t owe them anything —
at least they never see it that way.
Nobody on earth goes with the flow better than a dog.
Walk? Absolutely.
Dog park? Say less.
Riding in the basket of a shopping cart?
Best day of their entire fucking life.
You can buy them toys, treats, beds, sweaters —
they’ll enjoy it.
But hand them an old shoe
and they’ll lose their minds with joy just the same.
They don’t confuse value with price.
They don’t need things to be curated or expensive to feel loved.
And the dogs who strut proudly in a sweater or a stupid little hat?
That’s trust.
That’s permission to share in their joy,
even on days you don’t feel like you deserve any.
You can say whatever you want to a dog.
Your fears, your shame, your secrets,
the things you’d never admit to anyone with a pulse and an opinion —
they’ll take all of it.
A dog won’t weaponize your vulnerability.
Won’t repeat what you said.
Won’t twist it later.
Won’t judge you for thinking it.
Won’t tell you you’re overreacting.
Won’t look at you differently tomorrow.
And when the world leaves you behind —
when the people who promised they’d be there aren’t,
when the phone goes quiet,
when you start to wonder if anyone would notice if you just disappeared —
a dog doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t reassess your worth.
Doesn’t drift away.
They’ll still sit at your feet.
Still follow you from room to room.
Still act like your return after five minutes
is the happiest moment of their entire existence.
A dog doesn’t wait for the world to approve of you.
They approve first.
Maybe we don’t need more therapists in the world.
Maybe we just need more dogs.
Because a therapist will analyze you, challenge you, rewire you —
and that’s fine, that’s helpful, that’s good for some people.
But a dog cuts past all of it.
They don’t try to fix you.
They don’t dissect you.
They don’t explain you to yourself.
They don’t ask you to justify the way you feel.
They just sit with you.
They just stay.
They offer the one thing almost nobody else can:
uninterrupted presence.
No agenda.
No judgment.
No disappointment.
Just: I’m here.
Maybe the world doesn’t need another industry built around healing.
Maybe it needs something simpler —
a creature who reminds you, without saying a word,
that you’re still worth showing up for.
Dogs aren’t “man’s best friend.”
They are the standard we fail to meet.
And that’s why loving a dog feels complete —
because their love is the one place
where nothing in you has to be earned.