When most kids dream of getting a pet, they picture joy, laughter, and unconditional love. I dreamed of that too. But in my father’s house, even the animals weren’t safe.
Growing up, I learned the hard way that nothing was safe, not even the animals. The same cruelty and control he used on people extended to the pets we were supposed to love.
I was six years old when we got our first dog, Chucky. At that age, the world still felt simple to me. A dog meant fun, laughter, and love. I remember bouncing with excitement, imagining playing fetch in the yard, hugging him tight, and having a best friend who would never leave my side. I even begged to name him Snoopy after the cartoon dog I adored. It felt like the most important decision of my young life. To me, Chucky wasn’t just a pet, he was the promise of safety and joy in a home where both were rare.
That joy didn’t last long. One of my earliest memories with Chucky still haunts me. During toilet training, when he had an accident inside, my dad forced him to open his mouth and take the feces right off the floor. I stood there frozen, my six-year-old mind unable to process what I was seeing. Was this really what discipline looked like? Was I supposed to laugh along? Was it okay because my dad said so? Instead, I felt sick. I remember the smell, the shame, and the way Chucky whimpered, confused and scared, just like me. That moment shattered the innocence I had poured into the idea of having a dog. It taught me something I couldn’t name at the time: cruelty can be disguised as teaching, but it only creates fear.
We didn’t keep Chucky. My dad eventually gave him away, and I remember quietly hoping he would get a great home. I hoped he would end up with people who would love him the way I wanted to but couldn’t. That thought stayed with me far longer than Chucky did.
It didn’t stop there. When we had a budgie bird, my father decided it needed to be taught a lesson after it bit him. His idea of teaching was to hold the tiny bird under running water. I can still see its feathers plastered to its body, the frantic flapping of wings that couldn’t escape, and the sound of water rushing over something so small and helpless. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. The fear that poured through me in that moment matched the bird’s. If he could do that to an animal, what would he do to me if I ever stepped out of line?
By the time I was eleven, we got our second dog, Chrissy. I was older now, no longer the wide-eyed kid who thought a puppy meant nothing but fun. But I still carried the same love for animals and wanted so badly for this time to be different. I remember the pride I felt when I got to choose her name. For once, I thought, I had a little say in something that mattered. But the excitement didn’t even last a day. On her very first night home, Chrissy peed in the house as any puppy would. Instead of laughing it off or teaching me how to be patient with her, my dad turned on me. He scolded me sharply, as if her mistake was already my failure. That moment set the tone for everything that followed.
I will never forget the night Chrissy peed on the carpet again. Most people would have cleaned it up and moved on. My father turned it into an ordeal. He ripped the mattress and box spring off the bed just to drag Chrissy out from where she had tried to hide. His anger filled the house like smoke, thick, choking, and impossible to escape. At eleven, I was old enough to know this wasn’t normal. Old enough to recognize the punishment didn’t fit the crime. But I wasn’t old enough to stop it. In my father’s world, everything was about control, not love.
What sticks with me most is the silence afterward. No one ever talked about it, not my mom, not my brother, not me. We just carried on like nothing happened. That silence made the cruelty worse, because it told me it was normal. It told me I shouldn’t question it.
Looking back now, I see that these moments weren’t about animals at all. They were about power. My father needed to dominate, to control, to break things down until fear became the only language spoken in our home.
At six years old, I was too innocent to understand what was happening with Chucky. At eleven, I was old enough to see it clearly with Chrissy, but still powerless to change it. That shift, from innocent joy to fearful awareness, is one of the clearest markers of how abuse shapes a child. It takes the wonder out of growing up and replaces it with dread.
Today, I treat my dogs like family. They sleep on the bed, get belly rubs, and know nothing but love from me. Because I know what it’s like when kindness isn’t taught, even to animals. And I refuse to carry that cruelty forward. In a way, the little boy who wanted to name his Beagle Snoopy finally gets his wish. My dogs will only ever know the safety and love I dreamed of giving them back then.
Next time on Tattooed Truths: The Night a Beer Broke Me: How My Dad Turned a Simple Order Into One of the Most Humiliating Nights of My Life.