The other day, I was watching the latest season of The Virgin River, enjoying its quiet charm and small-town comfort, when something unexpected stirred a memory I usually keep tucked away.
A simple sign.
“Beware of Dog.”
And a dog suddenly charges at Mel, the nurse, the main character. It’s brief, almost brushed aside in the flow of the story—but for me, it wasn’t just a scene. It was a trigger. That split second of unpredictability, the way calm turns into fear without warning—I felt it in my body before my mind could even process it.
For most, it’s just a warning. For me, it’s a feeling.
Years ago, I was attacked by a neighbor’s dog—a Rottweiler. There were no signs, no warnings, no indication of what could happen in a split second. I was just walking, minding my own business, when he came out of nowhere and lunged at me.
I still remember the force. The shock. The fear.
I was wearing a loose-fitting jacket that day. That jacket saved me. It took the brunt of it—otherwise, it would have been my wrist, my skin, a piece of me.
But something did get taken that day.
My sense of safety.
My ease.
My trust.
For a long time after that, I stopped walking on my own street. A simple walk—something so ordinary—became something I feared. Every bark felt louder. Every gate looked uncertain. Every passing shadow made my heart race.
It took time—so much time—to gather the courage to step out again. And even then, I don’t go empty-handed. I carry a walking stick. Not as a symbol of strength, but as a shield for my fear.
So when I say I am not dog-friendly, I hope there is a pause before judgment.
I understand—truly—that dogs mean the world to many people. They are companions, protectors, family. I am not denying their loyalty or their love. I have seen it, I believe it.
But I have also felt something else.
Fear doesn’t always listen to logic.
Trauma doesn’t negotiate with reassurance.
You may know your dog is friendly.
I don’t.
And I cannot take that chance.
There’s another truth too—one that feels almost uncomfortable to say out loud.
I don’t like anyone entering my space unexpectedly.
Not humans. Not animals.
There is something deeply personal about space—physical, emotional, invisible boundaries we carry with us. And when those are crossed without warnings, it leaves behind more than just a moment. It lingers.
So yes, I believe all dogs should be on a leash in public spaces.
Not because they are bad.
But because not everyone feels safe.
Not everyone has had the same experiences.
Not everyone can simply “trust” and move on.
Sometimes, the bravest thing someone does is step outside again after fear has taught them otherwise.
And sometimes, a little consideration from others—a leash, a warning, a moment of awareness—can make that step a little easier.
We all carry stories.
Some are visible.
Some are not.
This one is mine.
Have you ever had an experience that changed the way you see something forever?
Do you think people always understand invisible fears and personal boundaries?
If you’re a pet owner, what do you do to make others feel safe around your pet?
And honestly—how do you feel about leashes in public spaces?
I’d love to hear your thoughts.
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