The Mother Who Chose to Love Again

Five years ago, we adopted Jubee from Three Little Pitties Rescue in Houston.

Before she found us, she had been living on the streets.

She was about two years old when she came home.

She was quiet.

A little shut down.

But there was something in her eyes.

A spark.

A determination.

You could tell she'd survived things no dog should ever have to survive.

Jubee is an American Bully.

She is also incredibly dog aggressive.

For the first few years, we kept trying to make her into the dog we imagined she'd become.

Camping.

Truck rides.

New places.

Maybe this trip would be different...

It never was.

If she heard another dog...

Saw another dog...

Everything changed.

Her body became rigid.

Her hackles rose.

She barked with a ferocity that startled everyone around her.

It wasn't enjoyable for her.

It certainly wasn't enjoyable for us.

Eventually, we stopped trying to make Jubee fit into a life she clearly didn't want.

We live on eleven beautiful acres.

This is her happy place.

This is where she feels safe.

And eventually, we realized something.

Loving Jubee didn't mean helping her become the dog we imagined she could be.

It meant loving the dog who was already standing in front of us.

Then, about three years after she came home, I noticed something.

Jubee had a favorite spot on our heated floor near the kitchen sink.

She'd lie there quietly, staring off into space.

She looked...

Sad.

Not tired.

Not sick.

Sad.

One day, I sat down beside her.

I gently asked,

"Hey, Baby..."

"Can you tell me why you're so sad?"

The answer took my breath away.

She showed me a memory.

When she was living on the streets, she had a litter of puppies.

She loved them with everything she had.

Then one night...

A pack of dogs attacked.

She fought.

She fought with everything she had.

She still carries the scars.

But she couldn't save her babies.

As she shared the story, I could feel something much deeper than grief.

She believed she had failed them.

She believed she hadn't been a good enough mother.

I sat there with tears running down my face.

Not only because I could feel her pain.

Because, as a mother myself...

I understood it.

I think many mothers carry quiet places inside themselves where they wonder if they could have done more.

Loved better.

Protected longer.

Chosen differently.

I gently told Jubee something I hoped she could begin to believe.

"You did everything you could."

"You were the best mama you knew how to be."

"What happened wasn't your fault."

Then I told her something else.

"You chose Chonkie."

When Chonkie came to live with us, he was only four months old.

Considering Jubee's history, introducing the two of them wasn't exactly smooth.

It took ten days before they could even be together without growling.

But then...

Something beautiful happened.

Jubee chose him.

She became his mama.

She washed his ears.

Watched over him.

Loved him with her whole heart.

Even today, Chonkie weighs seventy-five pounds.

Jubee weighs fifty.

She still mothers him as though he's that same awkward puppy who first walked into her life.

And watching the two of them together taught me something I didn't expect.

What Jubee Taught Me

For a long time, I looked at Jubee's behavior and saw a problem.

Why couldn't she go camping?

Why couldn't she enjoy riding in the truck?

Why couldn't she be around other dogs?

Why couldn't she just realize she was safe now?

But I was asking the wrong questions.

I was looking at who Jubee was today without fully understanding everything she'd lived through before she found us.

Once I understood more of her story, her behavior looked different to me.

Not easier.

Not necessarily something that would ever completely change.

But understandable.

There is a difference.

Sometimes we want healing to look like the past disappearing.

The fear goes away.

The behavior stops.

The wound closes.

Everything becomes normal.

Jubee taught me that healing can look very different.

Healing doesn't always mean becoming who you were before something happened.

Sometimes healing means discovering who you can become afterward.

Jubee may never want to go camping.

She may never want strange dogs in her world.

She may always feel safest on these eleven acres.

And that's okay.

Because healing isn't measured by how closely she resembles the dog I once imagined she should become.

It's measured in her life.

Her safety.

Her joy.

Her relationships.

And perhaps nowhere is that more beautiful than with Chonkie.

What happened to Jubee's puppies could never be undone.

Chonkie didn't replace them.

He wasn't supposed to.

That's important.

Love doesn't replace what we've lost.

But sometimes love gives us somewhere new to place what remains in our heart.

Jubee still had love to give.

And when this goofy four-month-old puppy came into her world, somehow she found the courage to give it.

She chose him.

She washed his ears.

She watched over him.

She became a mother again—not because her first family no longer mattered, but because they always would.

I find that incredibly beautiful.

Her past didn't disappear.

Her life grew around it.

And maybe that's something we humans need to remember too.

We don't always have to erase grief before we're allowed to experience joy.

We don't have to stop loving someone we've lost before we're allowed to love someone new.

Our hearts are capable of holding both.

Grief and love.

Memory and possibility.

What was...

and what is.

Jubee taught me that beginning again doesn't mean leaving the past behind.

Sometimes beginning again simply means allowing love to have somewhere else to go.

You May Be Wondering...

Can animals carry emotional wounds from their past?

In my experience, I believe they can.

I have communicated with animals whose past experiences seemed connected to fears, behaviors, and emotions they were experiencing in the present.

But I've also learned not to assume that every behavior has an emotional or spiritual explanation. Animals can have medical, behavioral, environmental, and physical needs that deserve appropriate professional care.

What Jubee has taught me is to become curious about the whole animal rather than seeing only the behavior I wish would change.

What has this animal experienced?

Where do they feel safe?

What are they telling me through their behavior?

What kind of life allows them to be most fully themselves?

Sometimes love helps an animal move beyond something from their past.

And sometimes love looks like accepting that a part of their past may always travel with them.

Jubee didn't need us to erase her history.

She needed us to give her a life where her history could be held with compassion.

And then, when she was ready...

she chose love again.

May you see the world through the eyes of love, remembering that we are all part of one living, sacred whole.