Kira
I regretted Kira before we ever got out of the humane society.
That feels terrible to say, which is probably why it matters.
She was sick and skinny and ragged. She had clearly been someone’s dog once, but whatever that life was, it hadn’t held. By the time she got to us, she was reactive, suspicious, all nerves and motion. Not trusting. Not settled. Not grateful in the way people like to imagine rescue dogs should be.
And I remember thinking, almost immediately, that I had made a mistake.
I had loved a different kind of dog before. A sweet dog. A compliant dog. A dog whose attention rested easily on me. A dog whose devotion was obvious and soft and simple to understand.
Kira was none of that.
She was all outward energy. All chaos. She didn’t arrive wanting to please. She arrived scanning, reacting, bracing. Even now, there is something in her that remains pure husky—willful, unpredictable, choosing for herself when compliance is worth her time. She listens now. She learns. She is devoted. But she is still a husky, which means devotion does not always look like obedience.
It took months to uncover who she is.
That is the part I keep coming back to. Not training, exactly. Not even trust, though trust is part of it. More the long, slow process of letting a dog learn that she is safe. That this is home. That whatever made her so guarded and reactive no longer has to lead every moment.
There was no single breakthrough. No movie moment where she softened all at once and everything became clear. It happened by degrees. By repetition. By staying.
And then, slowly, the real Kira started to appear.
Not a calmer version. Not a smaller one. Not a more manageable one. Just more fully herself.
The silliness came first, or maybe it was there all along and I just couldn’t see it through the stress of everything else. The unpredictability. The ridiculousness. The pure husky insanity of a dog who can be intensely focused one minute and completely unhinged the next. The singing. Teaching her to sing remains one of my better decisions. The swatting me awake in the morning, as if she has never once considered that another creature might prefer to enter the day gradually.
She is a counter surfer, which is not ideal, but also at this point just part of who she is. One night she stole veggie chicken nuggets. The next day I found a stuffed chicken nugget dog toy, and now she has Chicken Nuggie, which is somehow both absurd and completely right. That is what living with her is like. Exasperation, laughter, surrender, affection. Often all at once.
She is work. She is a lot. She is not the easy dog.
But she repays it in joy. In laughs. In the kind of energy that can change a whole day.
And then there is Ryker.
Ryker is her boy. Her favorite person. The two of them together create joyful moments for me every single day. I get to watch them together and feel how exactly right she is in our lives.
That matters more than I can say.
Because Kira did not come to us as joy. She came sick and skinny and ragged. She came not trusting. She came reactive enough that I regretted her almost immediately. And maybe that is why I feel what I feel now so strongly. Not just love, though of course that is there. Pride too.
Pride in taking this street dog—who knows her past, really—and staying with the process long enough to see her become herself.
That is what has been beautiful. Not that she turned into some ideal dog. Not that she became easy. She didn’t. She became Kira. Devoted in her own way. Listening in her own way. Home in her own way. A dog who found a place for herself and then, somehow, fit exactly where Ryker and I needed more love and more joy.
I had loved an easy dog before.
Kira taught me to love a different kind of dog.
If you are thinking about adopting, do it with your eyes open.
It’s not always an instant bond. Sometimes it’s confusion and second-guessing and wondering if you made a mistake before you even get home. Sometimes it’s months of figuring each other out. Sometimes it’s a dog who arrives carrying more history than you understand.
And then, if you stay with it, it becomes something else.
The San Diego Humane Society gave Kira a place to land when she needed it. They do that every day—for animals who don’t come in easy, who don’t come in perfect, who don’t come in ready.
If you’re looking for a dog, consider starting there. You might not get the easy one. You might get the one who changes you.
