Room for Another

By Corey Colombin | For the Love of Dog | October 2026

Don’t you just love seeing people who seem to have a real connection with their dog? You may encounter them on a walk around the lake or in a dog park. You may only see them at a distance, jogging on the road or taking a stroll around the neighborhood. Regardless of where you see them, they are easy to spot. There’s something in the way they interact with each other and with whomever they encounter. It’s a friendliness they exude that seems to say, “We’re having a great day. You should too.” These are happy people with happy, confident dogs, and the combination is irresistible, especially to dog lovers like me and my husband.

I have mentioned before that my husband, Rob, is a natural dog whisperer. I should also mention that I do not make this statement lightly. You’d have to see it to really understand how extreme it is. He doesn’t have to coax a dog to come to him. They spot him—sometimes across a great distance—and respond immediately. They pull and strain on their leads, dragging their people to get close enough to bathe in his welcoming aura. I like dogs too—always want to meet them and love them up. But for him, it goes way beyond that. He has a quality that they can identify as good on every level—irresistible even. Dogs sense it and want to be part of it. It’s a quality that comes naturally—I don’t think he could shut it down if he wanted to. He doesn’t brag about it, but he doesn’t hate it either.

There was a time when we took our dogs to work with us. They were the official shop mascots. Our son-in-law brought his dog too. Rodeo was her name. On Mondays, after a couple days of being apart, Rodeo would come in, seek him out and proceed to tell him all about her weekend. It would go something like this: He would say, “Good morning, Rodeo. Did you have a good weekend?” and she would respond with a series of sounds—not barks, mind you, but sounds with the inflection of a conversation. If you’ve ever heard a Husky ‘talk,’ that is close to what it sounded like. Then he would say, “Is that so?” and she’d go again. It was very like a conversation. The funny thing was that she didn’t do that with anyone else. One day, our daughter, Rodeo’s human, was recounting an adventure Rodeo had over the weekend. Rob’s response was, “Oh, I’m sure she’ll tell me all about it.” She had no idea what he was talking about. So, the next day, we recorded the exchange and when she saw video proof, she was floored. My husband is that person to dogs. I’ve seen it countless times.

When we encounter a dog in a park, on a walking path, dirt road, or in a store—after asking their human if he can say hello—Rob crouches down to their level, a clear invitation to interact. While he says hello, gently petting them, they give him a thorough sniffing, which I’m sure is quite interesting to their amazing dog nose. I’m guessing they inhale a combination of his own unique human scent with a hint of laundry detergent, whatever he ate last, strong coffee, and a heady undertone of Daisy, our very spoiled pup. Sometimes, their humans have to pull firmly when it’s time to go. Their dog simply doesn’t want the love-fest to end. I strongly suspect that all those memes which describe a certain type of man, whose idea of heaven is to retreat to the woods, sit on the porch of a secluded cabin with a cup of coffee and hang out with their dog, are talking about my husband. Make it three dogs, and he’d pack right now.

It seems that every dog we’ve had has loved him best. Oh, they are good with me—occasionally snuggly and loving, but with him, it’s several levels above. We originally got our black Labrador, Mollie, to be the companion of one of our daughters. That lasted precisely the duration of the car ride home. Once free to roam, Mollie glommed onto Rob with a fierce love connection and there was no turning back. She didn’t even try to fake it. When I left the bed, she’d curl up on my pillow to be close to him. If it thundered outside, it was his lap she jumped onto—all 90 pounds of her. If he was returning home, she’d trample anyone to be first to the door to greet him. Once, when she was still a puppy, he stepped out the door for only a moment. Completely distraught that he was outside and she was inside, she jumped on top of the table where I was sitting, scattered papers and knocked over coffee cups in her pursuit to see where he was. Once at the window, she yelped and scratched like he was leaving forever. My objections made no difference nor did any reassurances, which prompted my oft-repeated question, “What am I, chopped liver?”

Now, our Daisy, whom we rescued from a shelter, is free with her affection. When Rob gets up in the morning, they have their rituals that they both enjoy: First, he removes the barrier from the dog door, then they go together to the drawer where the special reserve biscuits are kept. He lets her pick which one she wants to start the day. But here’s the twist: When he gets into the shower, she jumps up on the bed and curls up on his pillows to ponder for affection from me! Imagine my shock! She chooses me, lays her head on my lap and snuggles instead of abandoning me to pine at the closed door for Rob. This is a new thing, him having to share the dog’s affection. He is a little jealous because she saves that particular attention for me. Don’t get me wrong—Daisy, like every other dog, is not immune to his wonderful qualities, but she also views me in that light. I confess, I’m not hating it. Perhaps in her sweet puppy heart, there’s room for another. And—oh, joy—I’m it.