My dog is less confident when my partner isn't here
Reflections on a long weekend in the van with Scout... without Sean
I adopted Scout when I’d been dating Sean just over four months. He’s long been part of her life—he drove me to pick her up from the shelter, he provided midday bathroom breaks when his college schedule was more flexible than my office job, he encouraged us through our first group training class—but I don’t think she fully became his dog until we moved to Florida together in 2020.
Today? Oh, is she ever his dog.
Last Thursday, Scout and I dropped Sean off for a weekend with his college friends. We spent three nights in the van by ourselves (including one at an unfamiliar Cracker Barrel) and while we managed fine—no crises or van electrical system explosions this time—we were still giddy to reunite Sunday afternoon.
Scout has never been a confident dog. The shelter described her as “shy but sweet” back in 2018, and the summation still rings true. She does best when her family is together. Part of this is herding dog genes—oh, how she will stare after anyone who departs the group!—and part of it is general insecurity.
I’m braver when Sean is with us, too. He’s my teammate. His steadiness is one of the first things I loved about him, six years ago, when our relationship was brand new and I didn’t even know my future blue heeler existed.
I remember a weekend he went out of town before we moved to Florida, before he and I even officially lived together. Early winter 2020, pre-pandemic. I took Scout on several outings just the two of us—we walked with a friend on a snow-covered trail, we adventured around the capitol building, we bought a candle at Home Goods—and it was a struggle.
Sure, this was right at the start of me doing anything with Scout besides neighborhood walks. Our training was just approaching a place where I felt capable of going to a store without causing a scene if another dog appeared. She was calm enough in the car that the drive downtown (plus the street parking, tight enough to make my hands sweat) wouldn’t throw us off at the very start. But it was so much harder without Sean.
When I admitted using him as a “crutch”, one of my dog friends posited that he’s not so much a crutch as a tool: another thing to help us feel capable, not unlike a muzzle or the right harness or a favorite toy ball. (We laughed at the inadvertent insult. Sean is far from a tool in the sense I’d use it to describe half my high school classmates.)
Still, I insisted on taking Scout for many solo adventures. We fought to feel better navigating the world just the two of us: a shy-but-sweet, anxious-but-trying duo. I think we hit our peak in Florida when Sean worked full time in an office and I had remote flexibility—I could easily galavant to a nearby park or coffee shop or outdoor workout class with my cattle dog in tow. We even attended group training courses by ourselves! (That was huge with her reactivity at the time.)
When we moved into our van in early 2023—70 square feet of bright-yellow space, just enough room for the three of us and all our things—time apart became increasingly rare. Nowadays? We’re almost always together.
And we like being together.
But that means Scout isn’t pleased when the gang splits up. She didn’t want to go on long walks with just me last weekend. We played every day but only in short bursts. She asked to return to her van (perhaps she thought if we did, Sean would appear? Or it’s just where she felt safest?) after less than fifteen minutes outside.
Three years ago I’d have felt I was failing her. My dog’s ability to feel comfortable in a range of situations matters to me. For a long time I believed if I was “good enough” as a trainer and handler and owner, she’d be bold no matter what—and realizing Sean’s influence on our outings made me feel inadequate.
If we had this same weekend experience in 2020 or 2021, I’d have probably developed an entire training itinerary to do more things just the two of us, complete with metrics of success like 15+ minutes of engaged tug in an unfamiliar environment, 30+ minute minute walks without her rubbernecking and trying to turn me around, etc.
In 2024, though? I registered that Scout missed Sean. I considered if it was really a problem—or if I just felt, mostly out of ego instead of concern for her actual wellbeing, that it would be cool for her to be unaffected. And maybe it would be. Sometimes I feel small realizing how much more I dislike day-to-day navigation by myself.
But isn’t that part of a fulfilling partnership? Like Joan Didion asked in The Year of Magical Thinking about her late husband: “Were we unusually dependent—or were we unusually lucky?” In my online spaces there’s a lot of talk about independence for good reason: helping our dogs feel comfortable on their own, cheering for solo female travelers, not crumbling into dust in our romantic relationships.
But there’s a difference between normal, appropriate social-creature connection and unhealthy codependence.
If Scout was unable to function while Sean was gone? You bet I’d take steps to work on that, immediately. As it stands? I see no issue. Nothing felt impossible—merely a little more difficult without the teamwork we usually enjoy.
So I’m feeling warm and fuzzy to have Sean back with us. Affirmed that we really are an incredible team—only three days apart reminded us both how much better life is together. And quite comfortable with my dog’s social-creature response.
It’s not that we need Sean, desperately, to function. But he sure as hell makes our lives better. That’s a huge part of what love is.
