A new puppy may be a tripping hazard, but he’s also a lifeline for my wife

Huntington’s disease has changed so much about our life, especially for my wife, Jill. Her balance isn’t what it used to be, and falls are a real concern. In a house where stability is fragile, a small creature racing around our feet sounds like the last thing we should invite in.

Yet when Jill said she wanted another dog, we didn’t make a safety pros‑and‑cons list. The real question was, “Can we imagine going through this disease without one?”

On paper, a puppy is exactly what someone with a neurological condition should not have to deal with. They zigzag across hallways, slip underfoot, and appear out of nowhere when you are carrying a laundry basket. More than once, I have watched our 6‑month‑old puppy, Dexter, barrel through the house like a furry bowling ball. But Huntington’s doesn’t happen on paper. It happens in a real home, on days when loneliness is louder than common sense, and the walls feel closer than they used to.

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That is where the mobile tripping hazard starts to look like something else. Jill spends a lot of time at home while I’m at work, and Huntington’s has a way of shrinking a person’s world. When we first talked seriously about another dog, we did briefly acknowledge the risk. Jill said, half jokingly, “I know a puppy is probably not the safest choice for somebody who already wobbles.”

“Probably not,” I replied. “But you also deserve something that makes you excited to get out of bed.”

We sat with both truths: Yes, a dog adds danger, and yes, a dog adds meaning.

Small demands

If you live with a chronic illness, you quickly learn that safety advice can be endless. Add anti-slip adhesive treads on the stairs. Install grab bars. Avoid clutter. Watch your step. All of this matters. But no one hands you a checklist of things that keep your spirit from falling: laughter, purpose, comfort, companionship.

Dexter arrived in our lives like a tiny, joyful contradiction. He is every warning label come to life: fast, impulsive, always underfoot. And, still, we would choose him again.

For all the ways Dexter increases the chance of a literal stumble, he decreases the odds of another kind of fall: the slow slide into hopelessness. On days when Jill’s balance is off and her energy is low, he still needs breakfast. He still nudges her to open the back door. Those small demands keep her in motion and in the middle of her own life, instead of watching it from the sidelines. No grab bar can do what he does when he curls against her legs during her worst fatigue or bounces her out of bed when she wants to hide under the covers.

Given a choice between a perfectly hazard‑free living room and one with squeaky toys on the floor and a dog napping nearby, Jill chooses the latter every time. So do I. This is not an argument against safety. We still use handrails and good lighting and listen to Jill’s doctors. But we’ve decided that fear doesn’t get the only vote in our house.

A puppy may be a tripping hazard, but he is also a hope hazard: he disrupts despair, knocks over isolation, and scatters small pieces of happiness across the floor.

Note: Huntington’s Disease News is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Huntington’s Disease News or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to Huntington’s disease.