11/01/2025
When I found out I was going to have a baby, everyone told me the same thing:
“You’ll see, your dog will be jealous.”
“You’ll have to be careful.”
“Those kinds of dogs, around a newborn, are dangerous.”
But no one really knew him.
He was there long before the crib was set up, before the diapers, before the sleepless nights.
He had seen me laugh, cry, doubt—and every time, he would rest his head on my knees, as if to say: “I’m here, don’t worry.”
So when my baby arrived, I wasn’t afraid.
Because I knew.
The first day, I saw him gently approach the crib, on tiptoe, head tilted.
He breathed in once, twice, then lay down right next to it—no noise, no sudden moves.
And that’s when I understood.
He had just chosen his mission.
From that day on, he never left her side.
Every morning, he waits for her to wake up, lying at the foot of her bed, his ears twitching at the slightest sound.
When she cries, he whimpers softly, as if he wants to help me calm her down.
When she laughs, he lifts his head and wags his tail, proud, as if he had accomplished something extraordinary.
But it’s in the small gestures that everything happens.
When she learns to crawl, he lowers himself to her level.
When she falls, he nudges her gently with his nose, as if to say, “Come on, try again, you can do it.”
And when she sleeps, he rests his head on her like a living blanket.
At first, I was afraid of that bond.
Not of him, but of the world—of what people told me, their stories, their warnings.
And yet, I have never seen a look softer than the one he gives her.
It’s a look of a brother, a guardian, a friend.
A look pure, fearless, unconditional.
Today, my daughter is growing up with him.
She pulls his ears, laughs at his snoring, and falls asleep against his warm side.
And he, patient, lets her.
Because he knows.
Because he loves her, simply.
He traded long walks for naps next to the play mat.
Wild runs in the park for slow days spent watching a little human discover life.
And sometimes, when she laughs out loud, he closes his eyes, muzzle resting on her head, and I swear he’s smiling too.
I often think about all those people who warned me, their words full of fear.
And I tell myself they’ve never seen what I see every day:
a friendship that transcends species, a silent but immense love, an instinct that protects instead of harms.
My dog has never been a danger.
He became her first friend.
Her protector, her confidant, her faithful shadow.
And I watch them, often in silence, heart full.
Because in this world where we’re taught to fear everything, they remind me that there are still bonds made only of trust.
They told me he would be a risk.
But he became a promise.
A promise of love—simple, true, infinite.
