You can lead a pup to water, but you can’t make him drink. Hell, you can drag him to the river, hold his head under, and he’ll still come up gasping for air but refusing to swallow.
I’ve been there. Recently.
There was a pup—we’ll call him Kaito. Didn’t matter how many times I led him to still, clean water. Didn’t matter how many times I showed him how to drink for himself. Soon as I loosened my grip, he’d scramble back to the same muddy puddles, lapping up stagnant runoff just because it was easier. Just because it was familiar.
He wasn’t a bad pup. That’s what makes it ache. He was just… hollow. A vessel looking for anything to fill the void, be it clean water or poison. His need was a bottomless pit, and he’d trade his own dignity for a handful of dirt if someone promised him it felt like love.
I gave him structure. Gave him rules. Gave him a warm place in my den and the protection of my pack. For a while, he’d bask in it. He’d play the part of a well-trained hound, all eager eyes and wagging tail. But it was a performance. A pantomime of belonging, practiced until it looked almost real.
The moment my back was turned, he’d be gone. Slinking off to find some stray alpha peddling cheap attention. He’d come back reeking of stranger-mark and shame, spinning the same tired justifications.
“It’s different this time.” “We have a real connection.” “He satisfies me, I satisfy him.”
He couldn’t see he was just recycling the same old hunger with a different flavor. He was a customer in a marketplace of hollow validation, and he kept buying the same defective product with his own self-respect.
The final straw was when he looked me in the eye and said, “When they stop, I stop.”
There it was. The whole, pathetic philosophy laid bare. He wasn’t building anything. He was a tourist in other people’s lives, waiting for the welcome to wear out so he could move on to the next temporary shelter. No loyalty. No investment. Just a endless, restless consumption of the moment, with no thought for the man he was failing to build for tomorrow.
I realized then that I wasn’t his Handler. I was his landmark. The old, reliable tree he’d piss on between adventures to remind himself he still had a territory to come back to. My consistency was just enabling his inconsistency.
So I did the only thing left to do.
I left the territory.
I stopped being his landmark.
Letting go wasn’t an act of anger. It was the final, brutal act of love. It was accepting that I couldn’t save him from himself. That he needed to feel the full, unfiltered consequence of his choices. He needed to be truly alone in the woods he kept choosing over the den, without my howl to guide him back.
It’s a quiet peace now. My energy is my own. My pack is stronger for it. And I sleep without listening for the sound of a stray pup stumbling home.
To the Handlers out there, feeling the leash burn your palm: Know this. Your duty isn’t to save every lost pup. Your duty is to protect the integrity of your pack and your own spirit. Sometimes the kindest, hardest thing you can do is to drop the leash, turn, and walk into your own future.
Let the pup who won’t drink finally learn what real thirst feels like.
It’s the only lesson that might ever truly change him.
I’ve been there. Recently.
There was a pup—we’ll call him Kaito. Didn’t matter how many times I led him to still, clean water. Didn’t matter how many times I showed him how to drink for himself. Soon as I loosened my grip, he’d scramble back to the same muddy puddles, lapping up stagnant runoff just because it was easier. Just because it was familiar.
He wasn’t a bad pup. That’s what makes it ache. He was just… hollow. A vessel looking for anything to fill the void, be it clean water or poison. His need was a bottomless pit, and he’d trade his own dignity for a handful of dirt if someone promised him it felt like love.
I gave him structure. Gave him rules. Gave him a warm place in my den and the protection of my pack. For a while, he’d bask in it. He’d play the part of a well-trained hound, all eager eyes and wagging tail. But it was a performance. A pantomime of belonging, practiced until it looked almost real.
The moment my back was turned, he’d be gone. Slinking off to find some stray alpha peddling cheap attention. He’d come back reeking of stranger-mark and shame, spinning the same tired justifications.
“It’s different this time.” “We have a real connection.” “He satisfies me, I satisfy him.”
He couldn’t see he was just recycling the same old hunger with a different flavor. He was a customer in a marketplace of hollow validation, and he kept buying the same defective product with his own self-respect.
The final straw was when he looked me in the eye and said, “When they stop, I stop.”
There it was. The whole, pathetic philosophy laid bare. He wasn’t building anything. He was a tourist in other people’s lives, waiting for the welcome to wear out so he could move on to the next temporary shelter. No loyalty. No investment. Just a endless, restless consumption of the moment, with no thought for the man he was failing to build for tomorrow.
I realized then that I wasn’t his Handler. I was his landmark. The old, reliable tree he’d piss on between adventures to remind himself he still had a territory to come back to. My consistency was just enabling his inconsistency.
So I did the only thing left to do.
I left the territory.
I stopped being his landmark.
Letting go wasn’t an act of anger. It was the final, brutal act of love. It was accepting that I couldn’t save him from himself. That he needed to feel the full, unfiltered consequence of his choices. He needed to be truly alone in the woods he kept choosing over the den, without my howl to guide him back.
It’s a quiet peace now. My energy is my own. My pack is stronger for it. And I sleep without listening for the sound of a stray pup stumbling home.
To the Handlers out there, feeling the leash burn your palm: Know this. Your duty isn’t to save every lost pup. Your duty is to protect the integrity of your pack and your own spirit. Sometimes the kindest, hardest thing you can do is to drop the leash, turn, and walk into your own future.
Let the pup who won’t drink finally learn what real thirst feels like.
It’s the only lesson that might ever truly change him.
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