Mocha, the smallest Doberman with the biggest place in our home—even if I didn’t realize it at first.
I’ve lived with my dog Mocha for eight years, and I still don’t know how I feel about her.
She came into my life as a tiny, rusty-colored runt of a Doberman—the smallest of her siblings, and the only one I could imagine not being terrified of. I’d always been afraid of big dogs, especially Dobermans, so I figured if this little one ever got out of control, I could handle it.
I got her for my kids, not for me. She grew up with my boys, and every day I swore I’d give her away. Especially during the zoomie years—when she’d bounce off the furniture, chew through everything, and look me dead in the face with her wild puppy eyes. I’d point to the door and tell her to get out. And she’d nuzzle her nose into my arm like a toddler asking for forgiveness. Still, I wouldn’t call it love.
She begged for pets. I sent her to the kids. She became part of the rhythm of our home—part of the chaos. But not quite a child. Not quite just a dog either.
And then she grew into the Doberman they write about—protective, alert, loyal to the bone. I saw her stand guard over my youngest, ready to defend him without question. I started taking her to the vet like I do with my kids. Found her dog sitters like babysitters. Took her to the dog park like it was recess.
But still—I wasn’t sure what I felt.
Then, at four years old, Mocha got pregnant. I was right there on the floor with her, in our makeshift delivery room, telling her to breathe through her contractions the way my own mother had guided me. And when her puppies arrived—my grand-dogs—I felt pride. Real joy. And still… I wasn’t sure where she belonged in my heart.
She’s just a dog, right?
Now Mocha is eight. When she hears me coming down the stairs, her nails click like tap shoes on the tile, full of joy and urgency. It gets on my nerves. But when she doesn’t do it, I find myself listening, waiting—and a little hurt if she doesn’t show up.
I act annoyed. I let my youngest son think I don’t like her so he’ll help take care of her. But truthfully? I think about her almost as much as my human children. I worry if she’s eaten. I wonder if she’s lonely when no one’s home. I wish she could talk and tell me what she thinks about during the day.
So no—I still don’t know what I feel for her.
I know my heart hurts when I think about her not being here. I know I look forward to seeing her when I get home. I know that she is just as much my child as my human ones.
She’s woven into the fabric of my family, my thoughts, my routines. And maybe that’s what love really is: showing up, even when you’re not sure what to call it.
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