Naps and Naps

The thing nobody tells you, and I mean nobody, not the vet, not the trainer, not even the wise old dog at the park, is that you can't pour from an empty bowl. I learned that the hard way. There was a time when I gave everything I had to every dog who needed me. Every fence visit, every shoulder lean, every session in the yard, I showed up for all of it, every single day, and I never once stopped to ask myself the question I ask everyone else: how are you doing right now, Rocco? And one morning I woke up and I couldn't get off the bed. Not because my body was broken, but because something inside me had gone quiet — the part that cares, the part that shows up, the part that makes me me. It had been running on empty for so long that it just... stopped. And that scared me more than any thunderstorm or slamming door ever has. So I made a new rule: before I do my rounds, before I check on Maple or lean into Bruno or sit with Chester by his window, I check on me first. I do my grounding sniff. I find my patch of sun. I stretch and shake and lie in the grass and let myself feel whatever I'm feeling without trying to fix it or push it aside or save it for later. I let myself be a dog who needs things too. Because here's the truth — if I burn out, those dogs lose their coach. If I go hollow, I've got nothing to breathe through the fence. Self-care isn't selfish. It's the thing that makes everything else possible. You have to fill your own bowl first. Not because you matter more than the dogs you help, but because you can't help any of them if you're the one lying by the window, disappearing.

— Rocco 🐾