The Diva We Didn’t See Coming

When we brought Misty home, she was quiet.

Not in the peaceful, content kind of way.

In the “I’ve never been allowed to take up space” kind of way.

She didn’t bark. She didn’t play. She didn’t explore.

She just... existed.

Misty had spent her life on a concrete floor, used for breeding.

Producing litters. That was her job.

No toys. No beds. No soft hands reaching to pet her just because she was loved.

Her worth was measured by what she could give—not who she was.

She didn’t even know what grass was.

The first time she stepped onto it, she froze.

Stared down like she couldn’t quite believe the ground had changed.

Maybe it felt too soft.

Maybe it felt too free.

She didn’t know what to do with toys. Or treats. Or praise.

But love?

That, she figured out fast.

And one morning, it happened.

I was making breakfast—eggs, like always. Misty was sitting nearby, just watching.

Then out of nowhere, she let out a howl.

Not a bark. Not a whimper.

A deep, echoing demand for scrambled eggs.

I laughed so hard I nearly dropped the pan.

But underneath the laugh, something stirred in me.

Because that moment—that voice—meant something.

That was Misty claiming joy.

That was a dog who had once been silent, finally believing she was allowed to want something.

And she wanted eggs.

But she also wanted more than that.

She wanted comfort.

She wanted presence.

She wanted to be seen.

And she got it.

From that day on, Misty became the queen of the house.

The boss of the morning routine.

The softest blanket connoisseur.

And yes—our in-house brunch critic.

She was a diva.

And she earned every bit of it.

But here’s what I’ve never said out loud:

I saw myself in her.

I grew up in a house where opinions weren’t welcomed.

Where control wasn’t something I got to have.

Where survival meant keeping your head down and not asking for too much.

I didn’t get to explore the world with curiosity or freedom—I was focused on staying in line, staying useful, staying out of the way.

So yeah… when I watched Misty tiptoe off the patio onto the grass, I knew exactly what that felt like.

When she ignored the toy and chose silence, I got it.

And when she finally let out that howl—unapologetic, honest, full of hunger and hope—I felt it in my chest.

Because I know what it’s like to rediscover your voice later in life.

To realize that you are allowed to want.

To take up space.

To choose joy, not just duty.

Misty didn’t just teach me how dogs heal.

She mirrored back the ways we all can.

And maybe that’s the most beautiful part of her story:

She didn’t stay who she was made to be.

She became who she was meant to be.

So if you grew up learning to stay quiet,

If you were trained to perform but never feel,

If you’re just now stepping off the concrete into something soft—

Let Misty be your permission.

Howl if you’re hungry.

Rest where it’s warm.

And never apologize for becoming who you were always meant to be.