A few months after my partner and I settled into our cozy apartment, we decided to adopt a quirky little corgi named Benny. At 33, I was feeling the gentle nudge of my biological clock, and Benny, with his adorable stumpy legs and wagging tail, quickly became the star of our block in Manhattan’s Upper East Side. He charmed everyone, from the doormen to our neighbors, and even had a beagle girlfriend who lived just a few doors down.
Having never owned a pet before, I quickly became overly invested in Benny’s happiness. He enjoyed four long walks a day, gourmet dog food, and even a stylish winter coat to brave the New York chill—though he preferred to curl up in his faux-fur bed instead. Benny was a fetching prodigy, and I taught him that chasing after balls meant love and affection. He became a legend among our friends as he zipped through the air like a furry little rocket, returning with all the enthusiasm you could imagine.
Three years into our dog-centric bliss, I found out I was pregnant. Benny and I spent hours together, tossing balls and cuddling on the couch. But as my belly grew, he gradually moved further away until one fateful morning when labor kicked in.
In the early days of parenthood, Benny was surprisingly protective of our newborn. But soon, he realized this little creature was here to stay and wasn’t thrilled about the new arrangement. The baby, a bottomless pit of noise and demands, came with enticing toys Benny couldn’t touch and a massive stroller that seemed like a bulldozer to him. Benny became convinced that this stroller was a threat to his safety.
After some months of tiptoeing around our cramped one-bedroom apartment, we decided it was time for a family move to Brooklyn, seeking more space and peace. We whisked Benny away from his familiar surroundings and his doggy friends, only to plop him into a chaotic urban environment filled with barking dogs and noise. The transition was rough. Shortly after moving in, Benny was attacked by a pit bull that had escaped its owner. Though unhurt, he became increasingly anxious, barking at every sound. Then my son started “walking,” pushing around a plastic cart that wreaked havoc on our open floor plan. Benny, feeling cornered and overwhelmed, retreated into dark corners of the house.
Now, at two years old, my son is eager to play with Benny, who is less than enthusiastic. Poor Benny has gained weight due to lack of exercise, and as a corgi, he needs a job to keep him happy. Instead, he’s become a shadow in our home, often hiding away when my son comes barreling toward him with a “Big hug for Benny!”
Feeling guilty, I often found myself snapping at Benny to stop barking or leave my son’s toys alone. I started to wonder why he couldn’t adapt, blaming myself for being an overprotective “dog-mom.” I swore Benny would never end up in a bad situation like my husband’s childhood pets.
On a recent flight, my son yelled, “Be quiet, Benny!” and it hit me hard. I realized how often I told my sweet dog to be quiet. My partner and I seriously began contemplating moving away from our noisy Brooklyn corner. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a house with a yard for grilling and playing fetch? A place where Benny could escape when my son came rushing in for a hug? A reset for all of us?
After some searching, we found the perfect home in a quiet neighborhood of the Bronx. It features a hilly backyard—ideal for Benny to explore, chase squirrels, and hoard sticks. Of course, there are perks for us humans too: more indoor space, a good public school nearby, and an easier commute. But honestly? We bought this house to give our first “child”—Benny—a better life. Isn’t that what every pet parent aims for?
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