The Ones Who Were Silenced: A Birthday Tribute to My Dog, Seven
Tomorrow, my dog Seven turns 11.
He doesn’t bark. He can’t. He was de-barked by a breeder when he was just a show dog—silenced, not for misbehavior, but because his voice was inconvenient. That kind of forced quiet hits close to home.
Because here’s the truth: I’ve always been talkative. In grammar school, I was the kid who got in trouble for speaking out of turn, for talking too much. My voice was big, my curiosity constant. But over time, I learned that being heard wasn’t the same as being safe to express myself.
When I was 16, I went on a trip as a nanny to Catalina. I had a small, romantic experience—nothing more than sleeping in a sleeping bag next to a boy I had a crush on. I wrote about it in my journal—innocently, honestly, as only a teenager would. I tucked the diary between my mattress and box spring when I got home.
Later that summer, after another beach trip with friends, I came home glowing, relaxed, and tanned, carrying that lightness teenagers feel when they’ve had a moment of freedom. That’s when my mom greeted me with a cold, tight silence and said, “I read it.” Her voice didn’t rise—but her fury filled the house. She made me tell my father every detail. I felt exposed, violated, ashamed. Like my very being had been put on trial.
That night, I couldn’t bear it. I woke my brother and asked him to help me. Together, we went into the backyard and dug a hole beneath the cypress tree—a tree known for its strength, longevity, and, in many cultures, its role as a symbol of mourning and protection. There, under that tree, I placed all my journals.
My brother asked, “Sue… are you sure?” I said yes.
We poured lighter fluid. Lit a match.
And I watched as the pages burned.
It wasn’t about hiding something wrong.
It was about trying to protect something tender. Something that had never felt safe again.
And now, decades later, I live with a dog who also had his voice taken from him. Seven doesn’t bark—but he communicates in a thousand other ways. He leans in. He listens. He knows.
And I understand him, maybe better than most.
So tomorrow, on his 11th birthday, we’ll celebrate not just the years, but the survival.
Because we are the ones who were silenced.
But we are not silent anymore.
If you enjoyed reading this post, I’d love for you to join me on Substack page, where I share more heartfelt stories about life with my dogs and the healing power of the human–animal bond. It’s a space filled with paws, purpose, and plenty of love—I’d be thrilled to see you there.