A Jamaican Experience: The Dogs Who Loved Me
By: Baron Stewart
nce you’ve been loved like that, you are never the same.
I’ve been saved more than once in my life, and a dog did the saving more often than not.
I’ve always been a dog lover—no question about it. My childhood in Jamaica was painful and loveless, and I turned to dogs for solace. Maybe it started with Shane, my protector when I was a timid, scrawny boy. I named him after the hero in the Alan Ladd film Shane. There’s a moment in the movie when a young boy cries, “Shane! Shane!” as his hero rides into danger. That image carved itself into my memory. So when I got my hero, I gave him the same name.
Shane was black, skinny, fast, and smart—everything I admired and longed to be. He was brave and strong in all the ways I wasn’t yet. We were a team, codependent in the purest sense: I needed him, and I think he knew he needed me too.
In the 1950s, Kingston, dogs roamed as freely as children. Signs warning “Beware of Bad Dog” were everywhere, not so much for safety as to scare off thieves. But sometimes, they scared kids like me, too. I learned the hard way to keep my distance after I wandered into someone’s yard and startled a dog that didn’t appreciate surprise visitors. Walking home in the dark one night, I noticed Shane following me at a distance. I tried to send him back—I didn’t want him dodging traffic—but he wouldn’t go. Moments later, a snarling dog charged at me from behind a gate bearing one of those ominous signs. Before I could react, Shane hurled himself forward, clamped onto the dog’s throat, and fought him off like a warrior. When it was over, he shook himself, calm and proud, and walked beside me the rest of the way home.
He was my hero, my first love, and certainly not my last.
Years passed. I left Jamaica behind, but not the memory of that bond. In Southern California, another dog came into my life—this time, she found me. One morning, I discovered a beautiful collie asleep in my car. When I opened the door, she ran off, but my wife lured her back with food and water. We named her Lucky.
She had those soulful, knowing eyes. And she arrived just when I needed her most—I had just been diagnosed with diabetes. Determined to manage it through exercise, I started running. Lucky became my partner, accompanying me on five-mile runs every morning, rain or shine.
We became a fixture in Whittier. Our bond was so visible that it was featured in the local newspaper after we did a ten-mile run through Turnbull Canyon—my kids riding bikes alongside us, Lucky pacing beside me. I’d sometimes scoop her into my arms on the longer runs and carry her the last stretch. She loved it. So did I.
One morning, as we prepared to run at the local high school, two loose bulldogs spotted Lucky and charged. Panicked, she slipped her leash and ran straight through traffic. My heart plummeted. I imagined the worst. But ten minutes later, I heard a soft tap at the door. Lucky had found her way home. I dropped to my knees in relief.
She had three litters of puppies, and one of them—her mirror image—we called Little Lucky. Before long, our yard had become a canine circus: four resident dogs and twelve tiny chaos-makers, after a stray came to visit. Raising that many puppies was madness, but it was joyful madness. Eventually, we found loving homes for all of them, though each farewell tugged at the heart.
Little Lucky had a spark of joy and curiosity. When she was old enough, we sent her to New York to live with my brother’s family. The sudden change was hard on her. She cried for days. When I visited months later, she growled at me, unsure whether to trust me. It broke my heart, but I didn’t push her.
A year later, she returned to Los Angeles. The moment she saw me, her tail started thumping. She bounded into my arms like no time had passed. The other dogs welcomed her back without hesitation, and just like that, the pack was whole again.
If Little Lucky were joy incarnate, her brother Spike would be a different kind of love.
Skinny and athletic, with sad, soulful eyes, Spike was loyal to his core. Wary of strangers, he often played the role of neighborhood menace, especially to the poor mailman. We eventually had to get a P.O. box because Spike wouldn’t let that man work peacefully.
On one infamous day, the mayor’s wife stopped by for a visit. My wife, eager to prove Spike was harmless, placed her hand near his mouth—bad move. Spike snapped—bit her. Thankfully, she didn’t file a complaint, and Spike avoided serious trouble.
Despite his antics, Spike adored me. He hated water, so I tested his devotion at a dog beach one day. I walked into the waves. Spike paced on the sand, whining. Then, with a hesitant splash, he paddled out to me, his sad eyes locked on mine the whole time. That bond had begun when he was a pup, small enough to sleep on my chest as I worked. I think he remembered those quiet moments. I know I did.
Of all the dogs I’ve loved, I miss Spike the most. His fierce loyalty, his melancholy gaze, his quiet devotion—they left a mark nothing has ever erased.
Each of my dogs taught me something.
Shane taught me courage.
Lucky showed me resilience.
Little Lucky embodied joy.
Spike revealed the depth of loyalty.
Their love shaped me. Their presence brought healing. And their absence never really left.
Even now, though I don’t have a dog, I still instinctively look down when I walk, half-expecting the brush of a wet nose against my hand. Once you’ve been loved like that, you are never the same.
Dogs don’t just love you.
They see you.
And that kind of love stays with you forever.
Life Lessons from The Dogs Who Loved Me
1. Love can save you—even on four legs.
When life feels cold or lonely, we often look for grand gestures or perfect people to rescue us. But sometimes, salvation shows up as a scrappy dog named Shane or a stray collie named Lucky. Be open to unexpected sources of love and support.
Recommendation:
Stay open to connection, especially when you're in pain. Healing often begins with the quiet companionship of those who stay with you.
2. Loyalty doesn’t need words—it needs presence.
Spike didn’t speak, but his actions shouted devotion. He was all in, whether pacing the beach or sleeping on my chest. True loyalty is quiet, consistent, and sometimes invisible until tested.
Recommendation:
Value those who stand by you, not just in celebration, in silence, in hardship, and everyday moments. Return that loyalty generously.
3. Joy comes in fleeting, chaotic, beautiful packages.
The chaos of 12 puppies, the fearless curiosity of Little Lucky, the triumphant return of a lost dog—joy is rarely neat or convenient. But when it arrives, it’s everything.
Recommendation:
Embrace joyful chaos. Say yes to messier, livelier parts of life that remind you you’re alive. Laughter, surprise, and affection often come hand in hand with disorder.
4. Grief is love that never fully lets go.
Years later, I look down, hoping to see a familiar tail wag. That’s not weakness—that’s testament. Once you’ve truly loved, a part of you is forever tethered to what you lost.
Recommendation:
I want you to please honor your grief. Let it remind you how deeply you felt and how much capacity you still carry for love. Don’t let the fear of pain close the door to future love.
5. Animals teach us how to be more human.
Your dogs saw you, not your title, failures, fears—just you. That kind of love is simple, unconditional, and rare, and can reshape your soul.
Recommendation:
Live so that you see people like your dogs see you. Be present. Be forgiving. Love simply.
Final Thought:
Once you’ve been loved like that, you are never the same.
Let that be a blessing, not a burden. Carry their lessons forward in how you treat others, how you parent, how you forgive, and most of all, how you love.