Dancing with Biscuit: When Emotional Support Goes Both Ways
The Tug Toy That Saved Us Both
Her Kong toys—both medium and large—each have a rope we tied to one of the handles. (They don’t come that way, but we figured out a system.) After a few rounds of unintentional contact with her wonderful, sharp teeth, it became a necessary adjustment.
Biscuit is incredibly aware of those teeth. If she realizes she’s gotten too close, she immediately backs off. But excitement kicks in fast, and sometimes, it’s too late. Paws are a different story—no softness there. She cups and grabs. Does what she was bred to do. She’s a 55–60 lb Belgian Malinois with the drive of a working dog. She can scale 6–8 ft brick walls—I’ve had to grab her mid-climb to keep her from joining the neighbor’s dog. He just jumps up to see over. She? She will go over.
And when she sits and digs in—all that power in her hindquarters—I lose. On the tile, I’ve got a shot. She slides, I slide. But give her a rug or a carpeted room? She wins every time. That grip is no joke. There’s a reason her breed works in police and military units.
Our tug battles have turned into a kind of dance. Neither of us is going anywhere.
“This is what everyday emotional supports looks like, no vest required.”
Storms Outside, Stillness Inside
Biscuit isn’t a cuddle dog. She’ll sit beside you, sometimes right next to you, but rarely touching. Her presence is steady, not clingy. She shares space, not weight. With my husband, she sits in quiet companionship. With me, she does the same—unless there’s thunder. Then all bets are off.
Biscuit has been with us for four years now. She’s around nine. An owner surrender at five, and we still don’t know why. There’s no background story—just clues we’ve uncovered along the way.
She’s trained and focused, unless we’re away from home. Then she’s too excited to do anything but vibrate with joy. Her bark is huge, echoing and fierce, but it’s not aggression. She’s just talking. Still scares people.
She used to shy away from water hoses—and still does—but now she’ll come near, especially if you’re about to throw her doughnut. That’s her favorite toy.
I get loud sometimes, even when I’m happy, and her ears go flat. That just hurts my heart.
Thunder? She freaks out. I mean freaks. Full-body panic. A strong, solid dog trying to sit on our head and/or shoulders. No matter, whether your’e walking, standing or sitting, she is sharing that space. She crawls behind me on my office chair, balancing 60 lbs on the seat while I perch on the edge.
She isn’t allowed to sleep on the bed with us—but when it’s storming and we’re in bed, she is behind the pillows. That’s her spot. It’s the one time we know, and without a choice, it’s allowed.
We tried calming meds. It’s a production every time—she spits them out no matter what we hide them in. Pill pockets? She’s not a fan. She’ll sort food from pill like a detective.
So we play music. “Calm My Dog” playlists, firework videos on the TV to drown out the real ones outside. I watch her ears—those periscopes. I try to meet her where she is. Engage her. Keep her close.
Emotional Support Goes Both Ways
There are times I wish she could talk. That she could just tell me what’s going on in her head.
All I can do is watch. Respond. Assume what her past held and meet her here, in the present. She’s moved beyond flinching at the fly swatter and back scratchers. Now she loves the back scratcher. It’s the official butt scratcher in our house.
She’s my companion. And I honestly don’t know what I’d do without her.
We talk about emotional support animals like they only give. But it’s not one-way. I calm her. She calms me. And sometimes, we just play.
Who rescued who?
If this post resonated with you, you might also like our earlier story about Biscuit’s role as an emotional support animal. Read that post here.
Final Thoughts
Most days, I’m okay that she can’t.
Storms come. Fireworks startle. Life gets loud in ways we can’t control.
But inside this house—on tile floors or rugs—we’ve found a way to stay grounded. To move through it together. A toy, some music, and the willingness to stay when things get messy.
Not every rescue wears a vest. And not every kind of healing comes in silence.
Sometimes, emotional support looks like a tug-of-war.
Sometimes, it looks like a dance.
If you’d like to help keep this space going—for me, for Biscuit, and for others who need it—you can support Quiet and Follow the Line here.
Your Turn
Have you ever comforted your dog during a storm—or felt them comforting you?
Share your story in the comments. You’re not alone in the tug.
