There are things I’ve never been good at explaining to people.
Connection. Loyalty. Belonging.

I’ve always understood those things better with animals — because with them, nothing is performative. Nothing is offered unless it’s real.

None of this exists without Cheryl.
We met nearly thirty years ago, and together we didn’t just build a life — we built a pack. A real one. The kind where love shows up as presence, patience, and choosing each other every single day. Human and animal alike.

This has always been our pack.

And this letter is for all of you.

Tia

As far as you were concerned, it was me, you, and everyone else.

For nearly ten years, where I was, you were. Not following. Walking with me.
You weren’t my dog — you were my partner. My equal. My shadow. My standard.

If people didn’t want our dogs when we visited, we usually didn’t go. It didn’t matter who they were. You came first. Always.

You shared yourself with Cheryl — willingly, fully — but your bond with me was unmistakable. Quiet. Absolute. Non-negotiable.

You taught me that leadership doesn’t require force.
That strength can be calm.
That loyalty doesn’t bark.

It shows up.

And you showed up for me every single day of your life.

Bishop

You were strong without noise.
Protection without tension.
Comedy without insecurity.

At nearly 100+ pounds, you were immovable — not because you needed to prove anything, but because you already knew who you were. You carried power like responsibility, not like a weapon.

You loved being with both of us — and you made sure we knew it.

You didn’t divide yourself.
You didn’t choose sides.
You chose the space between us.

If one of us stood up, you noticed.
If one of us went quiet, you adjusted.
You positioned yourself so no one was left out — physically or emotionally.

You taught me that true confidence doesn’t need an audience.
That steadiness is leadership.
That the strongest presence in the room is often the calmest one.

You made both of us feel safe — together.

Mia

You belonged to Cheryl.

From the beginning, she was your center — your reason for existing — and you chose to share your love with me, not because you had to, but because you wanted to.

You loved walking with me. Long walks. Quiet miles.
You loved training — learning, playing, thinking.

But Cheryl was home.

You came to us carrying history, loss, and things you never spoke out loud — and still, you chose softness. You chose connection. You chose to trust again.

You taught me patience.
You taught me to listen to what isn’t said.
You taught me that healing doesn’t announce itself.

It unfolds when it’s ready.

Monty

You were fearless.
Or maybe you just didn’t care.

To this day, I’m still not sure.

The fact that you weren’t a German Shepherd never mattered. This was your house. The dogs knew it. You moved through the pack with absolute certainty — not because you challenged them, but because you belonged.

You were just sometimes harder to train.

You taught me that confidence has nothing to do with size — and everything to do with presence.

Sassy

You are quite wise.
Observation. Precision.

You see everything. You always have.

You choose your moments, your people, your space — and when you offer affection, it means something. You don’t waste energy. You don’t waste trust.

You are the keeper of balance.
The reminder that power doesn’t need volume.

You ground this house more than anyone realizes.

Tanner

You are the constant.

You were chosen by Tia in five seconds — no hesitation, no testing.
You welcomed Bishop without ceremony, as if he had always been here.
And you walked straight to Mia like it was your job to make her feel safe.

With every new Shepherd, you followed them.
You stood beside them.
And without drama or display, you would have protected them with your life.

My heart breaks when I look at you now and notice the emptiness that gathers after another goodbye. Your eyes change. They grow quieter. I understand, old boy — sometimes humans just won’t do.

People heard the word feral and decided who you would never be.
I almost did too — until one photo changed everything.

You became the bridge between souls.
The steady presence who carried loss without complaint.
The one who felt absence deeply and kept going anyway.

There is something most people never see about you.

You don’t lead from the front.
You don’t demand space.
You don’t ask to be understood.

You wait.
You watch.
You adjust.

When the pack changed, you changed with it — not because it was easy, but because someone had to hold the shape while everything else shifted. You learned every Shepherd’s rhythm without trying to claim it as your own. You let them be who they were, while quietly making sure they were never alone.

You carried grief without ceremony.
You absorbed loss without noise.
And each time the house felt different, you became steadier — as if you knew that if you faltered, everything else might too.

That kind of strength doesn’t announce itself.

It just stays.

At sixteen years old, we hope — more than anything — that you get to pass on the legacy before the day comes when we have to say goodbye to you, too.

Until then, we are doing everything we can to fill that space.

Because that’s what the pack does.

I’ve always struggled with human friendship — not because I don’t care, but because animals never ask me to perform. They understand silence. They don’t confuse loyalty with noise.

You all made me better.
Calmer. More patient. More honest.

Fluffy Shepherds exists because of you.
Its legacy is care, advocacy, and finding the right people for dogs who are too often misunderstood.

I promised I would take care of your friends.

This is me keeping that promise.

Always.

— Jeffrey