For Megan, being a dog mom has never been a single, tidy story. It is a living book—one written in chapters, each shaped by a different dog, a different season, a different version of herself learning how to move forward.
Each of her dogs—Bennu, Marzanna, Arya, Ash, and Colebuck—has walked beside her during a distinct chapter of life. Some chapters were about protection. Others about grounding, loss, continuity, renewal. Some were defined by survival, others by grief, and others still by the slow, courageous work of rebuilding and learning how to live fully again.
The dogs who are no longer physically here are not frozen in the past. They are woven into the story that continues today with the three dogs who share Megan’s life now. What came before did not end—it transformed. Those earlier bonds shaped the way she loves, the way she listens, and the way she shows up for the dogs who are still writing new pages beside her.
To Megan, being a dog mom is less about the logistics of care and more about devotion and stewardship. It is about growing alongside another being as the chapters change—honoring who they are in the season you share, without asking them to be everything all at once. She listens closely to energy and emotional nuance, meeting her dogs where they are rather than where she wishes them to be. That attentiveness has become a language of love.
Care itself, of course, is central to that love. Megan has seen three dogs through cancer, one of whom is still here. The process was exhausting—emotionally, physically, financially—but she does not regret a single moment or a single dollar spent. Attention, research, patience, advocacy, and long-term commitment matter deeply to her. Giving them more good days was always worth it. Love, to Megan, is showing up even when it is hard, especially when it is hard.
During a period of her life that felt unsafe, Ash—who has since crossed the rainbow bridge—offered a quiet, instinctive protection. He positioned himself between Megan and the world without being taught to do so. He stayed close, steady, watchful. It was not dramatic or trained; it was simply who he was. His presence gave her something essential: the ability to keep moving forward when standing still felt impossible.
The support she receives from her dogs today looks different. It is less about protection and more about presence. Less about survival and more about living. The dogs who are with her now help her stay engaged with the life she is actively building—through movement, routine, play, and everyday joy. They pull her gently out of her head and back into the day she is actually living.
Each one brings something unique. Steadiness. Curiosity. Humor. Energy. Wisdom. Together, they remind Megan that joy does not need to be loud or perfect to be real—though, as she notes with affection, Marzanna is very loud. They encourage her to get outside, to pay attention, to keep both her home and her life intentional. They make space for structure and spontaneity to coexist.
That intentionality extends beyond her dogs and into the land itself. Megan is in the process of converting a large portion of her two acres into a native meadow, with the long-term goal of certifying it as a wildlife habitat. She is thoughtful not just about what looks beautiful, but about what truly supports pollinators, birds, and other wildlife. The work is slow and deliberate, guided by the belief that our choices—down to what we plant—matter.
That belief was sparked years ago by Colebuck.
At a previous home, Colebuck used to run along the fence line and play with a fox on the other side. Not chase. Not aggression. Play bows back and forth, like old friends meeting at the edge of their worlds. Watching them, Megan had a quiet realization: our yards are not separate from nature. They are already part of it, whether we acknowledge that or not. How we live, what we plant, and how we steward our space has an impact far beyond our fences.
Being a dog mom, for Megan, is the ongoing choice to show up with devotion and intention—to honor what came before while allowing the present chapter to be something new. It is about holding grief and joy at the same time, about letting support evolve, and about trusting that living fully again can be gentle, ordinary, and real.
Her dogs—past and present—do not demand a perfect life. They ask only for presence. And in giving that, Megan has found her way back to herself, chapter by chapter, step by step, pawprint by pawprint.