Our dog Miso is the gentlest soul you’ll ever meet. She’s an affectionate rescue with a big heart and a surprising fear of paper towels. Despite her size, she’s the kind of dog who prefers soft cuddles over rough play, and her calm presence is often the soothing force our family didn’t know we needed.
One particularly difficult night, our toddler, Levi, was overtired and inconsolable. I had tried everything—rocking, singing, pacing the hallway. Finally, out of exhaustion and instinct, I opened the nursery gate and softly called Miso into the room. She walked over gently, lay on the rug beside the crib, and almost instantly, Levi’s cries began to settle. He reached through the bars to stroke her soft ears, and in that moment, peace returned to our home.
Moved by the connection, I gently lifted Miso into the crib. She curled up beside Levi, her quiet warmth easing him into sleep. I stayed nearby, watching the two of them breathe in sync, and before long, I dozed off too—comforted by their calm and connection.
But morning brought an unexpected challenge.
My partner, Salome, had seen everything through the baby monitor. Sitting across from me with her coffee mug in hand, she looked deeply shaken. “You let the dog into the crib,” she said quietly. I tried to explain: that Miso is incredibly gentle, that I had stayed alert most of the night, that Levi had finally found comfort—but the words didn’t land.
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