It’s easy to sell dreams to a doe-eyed newlywed. Once the wedding was over, it felt like time to start checking boxes. Investment property, another baby, a home together. All the things that supposedly prove you’re building a life. The first box on my list was baby number two. I wanted a girl. We talked about it. We started trying. And then uncertainty crept in. Job prospects for Mr. Giant shifted, and just like that, the dream was postponed.

So we did what people do when they’re trying to fill a space they don’t yet have language for.

We got a dog.

I had always been a small dog person. I already had Donna, my Shih Tzu sweet, smart, perfect. She’d been with me through different seasons, moving between me and my sister when life demanded flexibility. When we thought we were moving overseas, my sister took her in. Plans changed. Donna stayed. The house felt noticeably less full.

Mr. Giant had one hard line.

An absolute “NO” to a small dog.

“What do I look like walking a little bitty dog?” he said.

Since getting a dog was my idea, I called it compromise and we began looking for a large, family friendly breed. Eventually, we found a local woman with a litter of Golden Bernedoodle puppies. One of them gravitated toward us instantly.

We named him Louis, after my hometown Louisville.

Louis became our son’s shadow. Despite a plush crate waiting for him, he insisted on sleeping outside his brother’s bedroom door. I loved watching them together. I imagined them growing up side by side.

Our son grew fast.

Louis grew faster.

By the time we realized it, he was ninety pounds! Big, affectionate, and clumsy in that way only dogs who don’t know their own size can be. I loved him deeply, but I was still trying to fill a space only a baby could fill. So….we got another dog. This time, a small one.

We named her Sugar and she was as sweet as can be.

Then COVID hit.

The world shut down, and our home became its own small universe. Louis and Sugar were inseparable. They chased each other through the house while our son followed behind them, laughing so hard he’d collapse mid-run. It was joy in a moment that desperately needed it.

Louis had one issue…jumping.

It never bothered Mr. Giant. He was big enough to absorb it. No one else was. And dogs don’t understand inconsistency. Training only works when everyone participates.

One afternoon during lockdown, Mr. Giant was grooming the dogs in the garage. Our son, curious as toddlers are, opened the door to see what was happening. Louis ran through and jumped on him, knocking him over.

They were both fine.

Our son stood right back up.

Louis found a quiet spot to lay in. No harm no foul…

Mr. Giant, however was NOT ok.

It was as if every frustration of being home, being uncertain, being stuck…found an outlet and that outlet was Louis. He grabbed Louis, dragged him back into the garage, and slammed the door shut.

As I distracted our son so he wouldn’t follow, I heard it.

Yelp after yelp.
Whine after whine.
Mr. Giant yelling as if Louis could understand him.

I ran to the garage. When I opened the door, the distraction was enough for Louis to bolt past me into the house. As he ran, I saw blood drip onto the floor.

He had hit a ninety-pound dog hard enough to draw blood.

I was stunned. Nothing happened that would justify this. NOTHING.

“Why did you do that?”
“What were you thinking?”

“He could’ve really hurt our son,” he said.

“But he didn’t,” I replied.

I tended to Louis with shaking hands, watching him flinch at every sudden movement. I couldn’t reconcile how someone nearly three times his size could do that, especially someone who doted on him in front of others.

What I didn’t say out loud but felt settle deep in my chest were the questions that mattered.

If he could do this to Louis, what else was he capable of?
Would he do this to our son?

To me?
To Sugar?

Now I know what I didn’t know then.

That moment wasn’t just a red flag.
It wasn’t stress.
It wasn’t a lapse in judgment.

It was violence.

And authorities should have been involved.

Instead, I chose forgiveness. I told myself I was loving him through his pain, through whatever broken place caused this. I believed that choosing compassion made me strong.

Now I understand what that choice cost.

It was a betrayal of myself and of Louis.

Years later, when some friends took Louis in, they randomly asked me, “Why is he so afraid of the garage?”

I said, “You’ll have to ask Mr. Giant.” Then I felt that now all too familiar tug to share the truth. Until this very moment they are the only people I’ve shared this story with.