MY DOG PRICK IS BIG, WHAT WILL I DO
Jessica sprawled on her couch, her phone glowing in the dim light of her small apartment. The hum of the city outside was a faint backdrop as she scrolled through her feed. Suddenly, Max, her golden retriever, bounded onto her lap, his large paws pressing heavily against her chest. His wet nose nudged her cheek, insistent and unyielding. “Max, get down,” she said, gently pushing him away, but his tail wagged furiously, oblivious to her discomfort. Jessica had adopted Max two years ago, drawn to his shy, soulful eyes at the shelter. Back then, his clinginess felt endearing, like a warm blanket. Now, it was suffocating.
Max shadowed her every move—into the kitchen, the bathroom, even the bedroom. Whenever she sat, he’d leap onto her, his 70-pound frame pinning her down. What was once cute now felt unsettling, like he was claiming her space as his own. Sighing, Jessica grabbed his leash. “Let’s go for a walk,” she muttered, hoping to burn off his energy. In the park, under the late afternoon sun, she called her best friend, Claire. “Max is so clingy lately,” Jessica complained, watching him sniff a tree. “It’s like he doesn’t respect my space anymore.” Claire chuckled over the phone. “He’s just being a dog, Jess. Maybe he senses you’re stressed.” Jessica frowned. “Maybe,” she said, unconvinced.
That night, Jessica lay in bed, scrolling on her phone, the blue light casting shadows. Max was curled at the foot of the bed, his breathing steady. Then, he stirred. Slowly, he crept toward her, his large frame looming in the dark. His eyes glinted as he nudged her neck, his paws pressing into her shoulders. “Max, no,” she said firmly, but he didn’t stop, his tail wagging as if it were a game. “Max, stop!” she shouted, shoving him away. Her heart raced as she scrambled out of bed, flipping on the light. Max tilted his head, tail still wagging, his expression one of innocent confusion. Jessica’s hands trembled. This had to change.
The next morning, she called a dog trainer named Sarah, who arrived with a calm authority. After observing Max’s behavior, Sarah nodded thoughtfully. “He’s confused about boundaries,” she explained. “He sees you as his equal, not his leader. We’ll teach him clear commands and reward good behavior.” She showed Jessica how to use “off” and “stay,” her voice steady as she guided Max through the exercises. “Consistency is key,” Sarah said. “He’s not trying to dominate you—he just doesn’t know better.”
Over the next few weeks, Jessica worked diligently. When Max tried to jump on her, she’d say “off” in a firm tone, guiding him to the floor and rewarding him with a treat when he obeyed. “Stay” became a lifeline, keeping him at a distance when she needed space. Slowly, Max learned. He stopped climbing onto her uninvited, his eager leaps replaced with patient sits. Their walks became calmer, his tail wagging without the frantic edge. Jessica felt a weight lift—she was in control, and Max seemed happier for it.
One evening, Jessica sat on the couch, a book in hand instead of her phone. Max approached, his eyes soft, tail wagging gently. “Come on up,” she said with a smile, patting the cushion beside her. He hopped up, curling into her side, his head resting lightly on her lap. She stroked his golden fur, feeling the warmth of his presence without the overwhelm. “You’re a good boy, Max,” she whispered. For the first time in weeks, Jessica felt at ease. Love, she realized, thrived best with balance—clear boundaries that let both of them breathe.
