Meet Lily (and Me, the New Dog Mom)
When Lily came into my life, I was instantly in love—and instantly overwhelmed. She was a firecracker from day one. The kind of puppy that wakes up ready to take on the world... and drags you along for the ride whether you're ready or not.
From the moment her paws hit the floor in the morning to the second she passed out at night, Lily was nonstop. Happy. Energetic. Mischievous. And utterly adorable.
I was doing everything I could to keep up, learning as I went. I was a brand-new dog mom with a lot of heart, a little insecurity, and no manual. But I loved her completely. I just... couldn’t always match her energy.
Life with Just Lily
Those early months? Wild. Joyful, but also exhausting. I felt like I was chasing Lily’s shadow every single day—trying to tire her out, entertain her, train her, and keep up with her ever-growing toy collection. (Seriously, where did they all come from?!)
In the middle of it all, I had this quiet thought I never really shared: Maybe Lily would be better off with a sibling. Another dog to play with, someone who speaks her language.
But I kept that idea to myself. I was still figuring things out, and I worried people would judge me. I mean, I was still a rookie—what kind of person thinks about getting a second dog when they’re barely treading water with the first?
The Judgment and the Doubt
Here’s the thing no one warns you about when you bring home your first dog: everyone suddenly becomes an expert. And if you're not doing it “their way,” you're doing it wrong.
Did I get judged? Oh Yes. Some behind my back or so they thought, while others behave like they have it all figured out because they've had dogs all their life," sure, but no two dogs are the same and mine is a rescue. Most of the judgement came from people who do not have a rescue or are under the impression they know everything about everything. We've all met them.
Oie....
Some days, I felt like I couldn’t do anything right. I wasn’t training Lily enough. Or I was being too soft, too many treats, not the right pace, not yelling loudly so she knows I mean it, or she was too hyper. Or I looked tired (gee, thanks). I don't yell at my dogs because they don't understand words the way we do, they understand our tone and stance, so yes at times I do that but she's still a dog and doesn't speak english.
People love to give advice—often without context or compassion. But they weren’t there for the 6AM potty breaks, the anxiety attacks with specific noises, the puppy meltdowns, or the moments Lily snuggled up to me after a long, chaotic day. They didn’t know the full story.
Truthfully, neither did I. I was still writing it.
What No One Talks About (But We All Feel)
Let’s be honest: the judgment can mess with your head. Even if you know you're trying. Even if you're doing your absolute best.
It makes you second-guess your instincts. It makes you quiet your ideas and silence your excitement. For me, it almost made me back away from what my heart was telling me: Lily would do better with a friend(another puppy not another human). And I could handle it—even if I wasn’t perfect.
I had to stop worrying about what people would say. Because here's the truth: they’re not perfect either. And they’re not in my shoes.
Enter Willow (AKA the Plot Twist)
One day, the rescue I adopted Lily from reached out. We’d stayed in contact, and out of the blue, she asked me:
“Do you think you're ready for another dog?”
Without hesitation, I said yes. Not because I had it all together, but because I’d finally stopped waiting to be ready. I saw Willow’s face, so much like Lily's, and my gut said, Eh why not?
Was it a little wild? Sure. But sometimes wild is exactly what your heart needs.
When Willow arrived, it was almost a repeat of Lily’s first day. She did one lap around the apartment, grabbed a toy from what had now become a very impressive toy box, and curled up like she’d lived here forever.
No tears. No hesitation. Just: “Hi, I’m home.”
And then came her first “Willow moment.” The next morning, I couldn’t find her anywhere. Total panic. Now, remember we live in NYC, my apartment is small. I searched the whole apartment, twice, until finally, I spotted her, laying inside the toy box. Right on top of the toys. Staring at me like, “What? I live here now.” I joke she was protecting the stash of toys from her sister.
Lily stood nearby, completely bewildered. She wanted her toys but had no idea how to move her new sister.
And I just stood there and laughed. Because this? This was our kind of crazy now.
Our New Normal (Messy, Beautiful, and Still a Work in Progress)
These days, life with Lily and Willow is full of noise, love, and personality. They're a hilarious little duo—total opposites in some ways, completely bonded in others.
And no, it’s not perfect.
Lily still struggles with separation anxiety. She still lives in that on-edge space sometimes—fight or flight is her first instinct. Her trauma didn’t disappear when Willow arrived. Healing isn’t linear, and it’s not quick. We’re still working on it, together.
But she’s not alone anymore. And neither am I.
Willow brought a sense of calm and companionship into the mix. She made Lily’s world bigger—and she made mine better. And that’s not because everything suddenly got easy. It’s because love showed up again, in a new form.
Are my dogs the most trained? Nope.
Are they always the most behaved? Also nope.
But they’re safe. They’re loved. They’re joyful.
And that, to me, is what truly matters.
Adding Willow didn’t just help Lily—it helped me trust my instincts, drown out the noise, and lean into what feels right for us.
So to anyone out there wondering if they’re “doing it right” or if they’re ready for another dog or just struggling with the ups and downs of dog parenting...
You don’t have to be perfect.
You just have to keep showing up.
Love doesn’t require you to have it all figured out—it just asks that you care enough to keep going.
🐾 Bare & Barks Community Note
Healing isn’t always visible, and progress doesn’t always look the way we expect. Whether your dog is working through trauma, learning to trust, or simply figuring out life one squeaky toy at a time—your effort matters. You matter. And you’re not alone in the messy, magical middle.