About Me Someone Destroyed Me Somehow — But Saved My Sanity

Let me start this off by saying: I love my love.

I love my golden retriever, Milo, more than I ever thought possible. He’s sweet, funny, smart (when he wants to be) and unquestionably loyal. But if you’ve ever lived with a high-energy dog ​​— especially a young one — you’ll know what I mean when he can bring chaos into the house like a hurricane.

And one day Milo brought the hurricane of all hurricanes.

It’s Wednesday. I have an early morning meeting, then more work, then more. When I finally get the business out of the driveway, it’s about nine o’clock before I get home. Milo usually does well on his own. He has toys, water, a comfortable bed, and plenty of room to hang out at my own computer.

Except… apparently, it’s not safe to say that.

I opened it and immediately sensed something was wrong. The air felt quiet. Very quiet.

And then I saw him.

Fluff everywhere, the house covered in white stuff like fresh snow. My son reached out and scattered like the victim of a small, cute storm. The trash can was knocked over, the contents were dumped and scattered on the floor. One of my beloved shoes—a worn-out relic—was lying next to a torn magazine I hadn’t even finished reading.

Then I saw Milo.

He was in the middle of the mess, tail wagging, ears down, a wide-brimmed hat.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to. I just stared. My jaw dropped, and my mind tried to calculate. Was the couch safe? Can I clean the carpet? Is that… is that spiciness on the curtains?

At that moment, the only clean corner entered, even overwhelmed.

And then, I did.

Not because it was funny — honestly, it wasn’t. But because I was on the verge of a life-threatening accident. I felt you. Emotionally asleep, I was so close to breaking down, and Milo, bless his heart, just let me.

So I cried and cried until I couldn’t feel anymore.

Milo came cautiously at first. Then, seeing that I wasn’t crazy, he climbed onto my lap (all 65 pounds) and licked both of my hands as if it were music, “I’m sorry, remember, I didn’t mean to do your whole life.”

And in that moment, I realized something: Milo wasn’t the problem. I was ignoring my own words.

Over the next few steps, I made my way out of the wreckage, cleaned up the mess, and collected the shredded bits of plastic and paper. Milo followed me everywhere, tail between his legs, probably thinking I wasn’t getting it right forever.

But as I worked, I thought I was relaxing for a long time. He came out again and again in moments of silence. How do I try to keep it together when everything inside me is watching me stop?

Milo has forced me to stop. He has participated in my routines in the loudest, most dramatic way possible, and has given me a gift I didn’t even know I needed: detail.

His destruction is not a mockery. It’s striving for attention, for stimulation, for connection. And maybe, just maybe, I need those too.

That night, after everything was cleaned up (or at least cleaned up), I took Milo for a long walk under the stars. It was quiet. Peaceful. He strolled beside me, leash loose, tongue out, as if nothing had happened.

And I talked to him.

I told him I was sorry I had been so busy lately. For forgetting how much he had depended on me—not just for food and shelter, but for companionship. I told him I understood now. That he was not just a pet but a companion. A reminder of what was important.

When we got home, I sat on the floor and Milo rested his head in my lap. I stroked his fur, taking my first deep breath in days. The apartment was still missing two pillows, and the curtains had seen better days—but for once, I wasn’t growing on the dirt.

Instead, I felt grounded.

Looking back, it was a turning point.

From that day forward, I rearranged my schedule to spend more time with Milo. I made time to play without my phone, to train, to go for walks. I worked on teaching him patience and giving him better outlets for his energy. And I worked on myself too — setting boundaries, prioritizing peace, and allowing myself to feel.

Milo still gets into mischief sometimes — he’s a golden retriever, after all. But I see him differently now. His behavior is a mirror. He reflects my mood, my routine, my distractions. He thrives when I’m around. He reminds me when I’m away.

If you’re reading this and your dog has ever destroyed something important — your shoes, your couch, your peace of mind — maybe it’s more than misbehavior. Maybe it’s a message. Maybe, like me, you need to take a step back and ask yourself what you’re neglecting.

Dogs live in the moment. They don’t carry the burdens of yesterday or the worries of tomorrow. They love us just as we are, even when we’re too busy, too tired, or too stressed to express ourselves.

That day, my apartment was a wreck.

But somehow, I felt more complete than I had in weeks.

Milo didn’t just tear up my couch—he tore down the wall I’d built between myself and my needs.

And for that… I’m grateful.