Meet Daisy the amazing American Dingo!!
By Johanna Elattar,
August is National Dog Month. For many, it’s a time for wagging tails, joyful walks, and Instagram-worthy moments. But for some of us, this month is about something far more profound. It’s about the silent, invisible work of healing, the small victories that are monumental only to those living them, and the lessons that come from creatures whose lives have been marked by fear, abandonment, and trauma. For me, that creature is Daisy.
Daisy is an American Dingo with a past most people would not understand at a glance. Returned to shelters multiple times, abandoned, nearly euthanized. When I first met her, she was tense, trembling, and distrustful of everything. Every sound made her flinch. Every raised hand made her retreat. And yet, behind her wary eyes, there was a glimmer of something else—a spark that had not yet been extinguished, a quiet hint of hope that someone might finally see her as more than her fear.
I saw myself in Daisy. Not just in her fear, but in the way trauma can make you small, cautious, and hesitant to trust the world around you. I understood that fear can become a lifelong companion, shaping the way you move through life, the way you react to even the simplest gestures of kindness. I recognized the subtle signs of trauma—the stiffening of muscles, the hesitation to approach, the instinct to protect oneself from a world that has already hurt you. I knew that for Daisy, as for me, the world had often been unkind.
Bringing Daisy home was not an act of charity; it was a commitment. A promise to be patient, to be consistent, and to create a space where she could learn that love could be constant, that hands could reach without threat, that she could finally be safe. Healing Daisy has not been dramatic or instantaneous—it has been slow, quiet, and sometimes invisible. But it has been transformative, for both of us.
The early days were difficult. She hid under furniture, trembling at the slightest movement. She barked and lunged at shadows, afraid of things no longer present. She wouldn’t eat in my presence. And yet, I stayed. I offered treats, quiet words, a steady presence. I let her take the lead, moving at her pace, never forcing her into contact or affection. Every small sign of progress—a longer stretch of relaxation, a tentative approach, a wag of the tail—was a monumental victory.
There are moments now that still feel like miracles. Daisy eats calmly in my presence. She stretches her legs and relaxes on the floor, even when the cats move nearby. She allows me to pet her without flinching. And, occasionally, she curls up beside me, resting her head on my leg, a gesture so simple yet profound that it feels like trust in its purest form. These moments are the quiet milestones of her journey, the tangible proof that trauma, no matter how deep, is not insurmountable.
Through Daisy, I have learned that resilience is not loud. It is not sudden or flashy. It is quiet. It is a slow, trembling step forward, repeated over and over, until the body and spirit remember that safety and love exist. Daisy has taught me that patience is not passive; it is a deliberate act of faith. That trust is fragile, but when it is earned, it can be transformative. That trauma does not have to define a life—it can be acknowledged, respected, and slowly set aside.
National Dog Month is often filled with stories of puppies and playful antics, heroic rescues and Instagram-ready joy. But the dogs who deserve recognition the most are often the quiet ones—the ones who carry invisible scars, who flinch at the world, and who dare to love again. Daisy is one of those dogs. She embodies the courage it takes to face a world that has been cruel and to allow herself to be vulnerable despite it.
Living with Daisy has changed me in ways I could not have anticipated. She has reminded me of the value of consistency, of showing up even when progress feels minimal. She has reminded me that love is not a finite resource and that the act of giving it can be as healing to the giver as to the receiver. And she has reminded me, in the most profound way, that sometimes, the ones we rescue end up rescuing us in return.
There are days when Daisy still recoils, when her fear overtakes her trust, when she seems trapped by the memories of what she has endured. But those days are becoming fewer. And with each passing week, each small victory, I am reminded that healing is possible—not just for dogs, but for anyone who has known fear, abandonment, or trauma. Daisy’s journey is a quiet testament to that truth, a story that unfolds slowly, deliberately, and beautifully.
On this National Dog Month, I celebrate Daisy—not just for the dog she has become, but for the courage she has shown in facing a world that has hurt her. I celebrate her for the lessons she teaches about resilience, trust, and the quiet power of patience. I celebrate the way she has touched my life, reminding me that even in fear, love can prevail.
Daisy is not just a pet. She is a survivor, a teacher, and a mirror of the human spirit. She is proof that trust can be rebuilt, that trauma can be faced, and that the smallest steps forward are victories worth honoring. She has reminded me that life, no matter how broken it seems, holds the possibility of healing, connection, and hope.
This August, as we celebrate National Dog Month, I honor Daisy—and all the dogs like her. The ones who have been abandoned, who have been scared, who have been hurt by the world, and who still dare to take a chance on love. They teach us patience. They teach us courage. And sometimes, they teach us the most important lesson of all: that healing is possible, that love is transformative, and that even the most wounded among us can find their way back to trust and joy.
Johanna Elattar is a journalist and writer for the Sun. Her work, recognized by Oxford University Press, focuses on local history, human stories, and giving voice to underrepresented perspectives. You can reach her anytime at, americangrrl70@gmail.com
