125 Pounds of Love, Loyalty, and Occasional Flatulence.
On finding freedom in the most unexpected companion.
This morning, I woke up while the world was still dark.
After two extraordinarily busy days, there was something almost indulgent about the silence. No conversations. No obligations. No immediate demands for my attention.
Just me, the darkness, and the occasional sip of espresso.
The dogs were curled into little balls on the couch, limbs tangled together in an adorable heap of paws, ears, and sleepy little faces.
And somewhere among the pile was 125 pounds of unconditional love.
Have I ever told you about Odin?
Odin is my service dog, my constant companion, and, quite frankly, one of my very best friends.
He’s a Cane Corso, an Italian Mastiff breed known for its imposing size, powerful build, and fiercely loyal disposition.
He is also an enormous, lumbering idiot.
And I mean that with every ounce of affection in my body.
Odin is a psychiatric service dog, trained to assist me with anxiety and panic attacks. His primary task is something called deep pressure therapy, or DPT.
Essentially, when my nervous system decides to throw an unsolicited fucking party, Odin knows how to help.
He lies across my chest, distributing his considerable weight in a way that helps calm my body. Think of it as a weighted blanket, except the blanket breathes, occasionally drools, and loves you with every fiber of its being.
It’s an extraordinary thing, really.
To have an animal recognize your distress, sometimes before you’ve even recognized it yourself, and respond without judgment, hesitation, or expectation.
Just presence.
Just love.
Just 125 pounds of I’ve got you.
And the funny thing is, I never wanted a big dog.
I’ve had four dogs throughout my life, ranging from a Chihuahua who was so spectacularly overweight that he resembled an engorged tick, his tiny legs protruding from his gloriously rounded sides, to a couple of perfectly manageable medium-sized dogs.
I genuinely thought medium was my limit.
Then someone mentioned Cane Corsos and their potential suitability for certain types of service work, particularly deep pressure therapy.
And down the rabbit hole I went.
Eventually, we found ourselves standing in front of three Cane Corso puppies, trying to decide which one would become part of our family.
They were all adorable, of course.
But Odin?
Odin was different.
He was goofy. Uncoordinated. Slightly ridiculous.
While his brothers seemed eager to demonstrate their puppy enthusiasm, Odin appeared perfectly content to exist at his own leisurely pace.
The woman at the facility described him as being “more slow than go.”
PERFECT.
Sold.
I’ll take the giant, mildly defective-looking one, please.
And somehow, without knowing it, I’d chosen exactly the dog I needed.
A dog who could hike with me every day but was equally delighted to spend hours snoring beside me while I wrote.
A dog who could recognize the subtle beginnings of my anxiety before I even understood what was happening.
A dog who, despite his extraordinary size and strength, possessed the patience to remain calm and wait for instruction.
A dog so ridiculously handsome that we can barely complete a walk without someone stopping to admire him.
Seriously. It’s like walking around with a celebrity.
Fortunately, because of the nature of Odin’s work and his individual training, I can sometimes welcome those interactions when appropriate. They provide opportunities for positive socialization, and Odin certainly doesn’t mind being told he’s handsome.
He knows.
The bastard absolutely knows.
But perhaps my favorite thing about Odin is the absurd contradiction between what he looks like and who he actually is.
This is an animal with an enormous head, powerful jaws, and enough muscle to make most grown men reconsider their life choices.
And he’s afraid of cats.
Cats.
Also vacuums.
And brooms.
And lawn mowers.
Apparently, the terrifying household cleaning equipment has formed some sort of alliance against him.
He’ll happily crunch through bones, yet when presented with a whole egg, he becomes a surprisingly delicate little gentleman.
He loves eggs, by the way.
Shell and all.
He’ll carefully crack one against the floor before enjoying his snack, displaying a level of precision that seems entirely incompatible with the rest of his existence.
My car has also become something of a mobile archaeological site.
There’s a collection of partially consumed bones in the back that Odin apparently considers important enough to preserve for future use.
A boneyard.
A personal museum of unfinished snacks.
I’m fairly certain he believes he’s preparing for some sort of canine apocalypse.
And then there are the everyday indignities of living with a giant dog who has absolutely no understanding of personal space.
I’ll be sitting at my computer, deeply immersed in writing, when a massive head appears beneath my elbow.
A nudge.
Then another.
Then a very deliberate shove.
Apparently, whatever fictional murder I’m attempting to solve is considerably less important than scratching Odin behind the ears.
And sometimes, without warning, he’ll throw his entire body onto the floor with a dramatic thud, roll onto his back, and expose his belly as though he’s been tragically neglected for decades.
Other times, he’ll fall asleep beside me and fart so loudly that I genuinely question whether he’s capable of embarrassing himself.
He isn’t.
Not even a little.
But beneath all the ridiculousness, the snoring, the drooling, the bones, and the occasional chemical warfare, there is something profoundly important about this dog.
Odin has changed my life.
And I don’t mean that in the casual way people sometimes say their pets have changed their lives.
I mean he has fundamentally changed how I experience the world.
Anxiety can be an exhausting companion.
It can turn an ordinary trip to the grocery store into an exercise in hypervigilance. It can make crowded spaces feel threatening, harmless situations feel overwhelming, and your own body feel like something you can’t entirely trust.
There’s an enormous amount of energy spent anticipating things that may never happen.
Watching.
Assessing.
Preparing.
And sometimes, just trying to breathe.
For a long time, I didn’t realize how much of my life was being consumed by that constant state of readiness.
Until Odin.
Having him beside me has given me back something I hadn’t realized I’d lost.
Freedom.
The freedom to exist in public without constantly scanning my surroundings.
The freedom to be present instead of perpetually preparing for the next wave of panic.
The freedom to breathe.
Not every moment is perfect. Odin doesn’t magically erase anxiety, and I wouldn’t expect him to.
But he makes the world feel a little more manageable.
A little less threatening.
A little more mine.
And perhaps that’s what makes our relationship so extraordinary.
To most people, Odin is an enormous, handsome dog with a slightly intimidating face and an impressive amount of muscle.
To me, he’s peace.
He’s reassurance.
He’s the steady weight of a living, breathing creature reminding me that I am safe enough to exist in this moment.
He’s also an absolute moron who is terrified of a broom.
Both things can be true.
So this morning, as I sit here sipping my espresso in the quiet darkness, listening to the soft snores of sleeping dogs, I find myself feeling overwhelmingly grateful.
Grateful for the ridiculous puppy we chose because he was “more slow than go.”
Grateful for the enormous animal who somehow knows when I need him before I do.
Grateful for the laughter he brings into our home.
And grateful for the freedom he’s helped me reclaim.
Odin may technically be a dog.
But he’s also my companion, my protector, my comedic relief, and one of the greatest friendships I’ve ever known.
I can’t imagine my life without him.
And I hope, in whatever way a dog understands these things, he knows just how much he means to me.
Thank you, Odin.
For the love.
For the laughter.
For the freedom.
And for being exactly the goofy, magnificent creature you were always meant to be.
Even if you do occasionally fart in my face.