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A reflection on dogs, responsibility, and the quiet cost of doing this work well.

Humans need dogs.

Not casually. Not optionally.

We seek them because they steady us, comfort us, and meet us in the quiet spaces of life.

They ground our homes, soften our hearts, teach us life lessons, and bring a kind of joy that reaches places nothing else quite does.

They love unconditionally, meeting us exactly where we stand —
no expectations, no agendas (perhaps a treat, though) — only presence for their person.

There’s a reason so many people smile at the old saying that dog is God spelled backwards — because for many of us, dogs feel like small, everyday gifts for the soul.

Breeding, for me, has never been about producing puppies.

It’s about sharing that gift — intentionally, thoughtfully, and with care — because of the good it brings into human lives.

But with something this meaningful comes responsibility.

Stewardship isn’t weightless.

Caring for living beings — both the puppies we raise and the parents who give them life — carries a weight most people never see.

It’s the weight of decisions made long before a puppy is born.

The weight of responsibility that doesn’t end at pickup day.

The weight of choosing restraint over shortcuts.

The weight of saying no when yes would be easier.

The weight of accountability to lives that depend on you to do right by them.

The weight of sleepless nights and long days.

The weight of not wanting to leave home for even errands knowing little lives count on us.  Always hurrying back to know all is well.

This isn’t about perfection, though I wish it existed in breeding these precious lives.

It’s about presence. And presence costs something.

Not just financially — emotionally, mentally, physically.

There’s a quiet belief that floats around animal care spaces — that if you truly love what you do, you shouldn’t expect to make money from it.  I understand where that belief comes from. Care feels sacred.

But love and livelihood aren’t opposing forces.

Money doesn’t negate care — it sustains it.
●It allows for time instead of speed.
●For patience instead of pressure.
●For thoughtful veterinary oversight.
●For the freedom to wait for the right home.
●For the ability to say, “This isn’t the right match,” without panic.

Those things don’t come from margins squeezed thin. They come from capacity.
And capacity is built by honoring the weight being carried.

The income from this work allows me to be home — fully present, fully invested — without outside obligations pulling my attention or minimizing the time and care each dog receives.

Much of this work is invisible.
●Planning ●Monitoring ●Documenting ●Absorbing risk ●Standing alone in decisions ●Choosing ethics even when they aren’t popular ●Building our life around their purpose for others.

This labor doesn’t ask for applause.
But it does deserve respect.

And yes — it deserves compensation.

I am not charging for a single life —
I am charging for care that is present, thoughtful, and human on all days, during all hours.

For showing up every day, making the best decisions I can with the information in front of me, and staying accountable to the lives in my care.

It also carries the tears — for the moments when things don’t unfold as hoped, and some lives never make it into forever hands.

I am allowed to be paid for the weight I carry in living this purpose.

Not everyone is meant to understand that.
But the ones meant to walk this path with us will — and their puppy is already holding space at the porch swing.

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Warmly 🤎 Gina