Okay, before anyone jumps down my throat, let me explain.

We’ve had Miso—our little tan Amstaff—for almost three years now. She’s never been aggressive. She’s barely more than a cuddle machine with a tail. Honestly, she’s more scared of the vacuum than our toddler is.

So the other night, our son Levi wouldn’t settle. He was overtired, cranky, tossing around in his crib. My partner Salome had just pulled a double shift, and I didn’t have the heart to wake her up again. I figured maybe Miso could help calm him.

I brought Miso into Levi’s room and laid her down on the floor by the crib. He instantly lit up—reached through the bars to pet her. Then, kinda on instinct, I scooped Miso up and let her curl up next to him. They both passed out in like five minutes. It was honestly the calmest night in weeks.

But the next morning… Salome lost it.

She saw Miso in the baby monitor playback and went stone cold. No yelling. Just that scary quiet kind of mad. She said I was reckless. That no matter how sweet Miso is, she’s still an animal, and Levi’s still a baby. She packed a bag and left with Levi to stay at her sister’s.

I’ve been texting her since, trying to explain. I even sent a picture of Miso curled up with Levi’s stuffed bunny, looking guilty as hell like she knows she messed up.

Salome finally texted back just one line:
“You don’t get how serious this is.