Dogs experience the world primarily through scent, much the way humans rely on sight, speech, and memory. What seems ordinary—or even unnoticed—to us can carry detailed information for them. Their powerful noses help them interpret surroundings, recognize individuals, and assess emotional shifts long before we say a word. To understand certain dog behaviors, it helps to remember that scent is their primary language.
When a dog leans in to sniff someone’s groin area, it can feel awkward—but from a canine perspective, it’s simply information gathering. Humans have scent-producing glands, including apocrine glands concentrated in areas like the groin and underarms. These glands release subtle chemical signals that may communicate details about age, biological sex, stress levels, and general condition. To a dog, this moment is comparable to a handshake or friendly introduction. It’s not meant to be intrusive; it’s instinctive and rooted in curiosity.
If the behavior feels uncomfortable, that reaction is completely valid. The good news is that dogs respond well to gentle guidance. Instead of scolding, calmly redirect their attention. Asking for a “sit” or “stay” before greeting someone sets a clear expectation. Rewarding the desired behavior with praise or a small treat reinforces the alternative response. Consistency is key—over time, your dog will learn that polite greetings bring positive feedback.
Most importantly, remember that this behavior stems from connection, not misbehavior. Your dog is using the sense that makes the most sense to them. By understanding the instinct behind the action and offering patient redirection, you can maintain comfort for everyone involved—while respecting the remarkable sensory world your dog lives in every day.
Dog and its owner, gentle and meaningful:
When Thomas first found the dog, it was raining hard enough to blur the edges of the world. He hadn’t been looking for anything that night—certainly not companionship. He was only walking home from work, collar pulled up, mind heavy with thoughts he couldn’t quiet. That was when he noticed a small shape curled beneath a broken bench at the bus stop.
The dog was thin, soaked, and trembling. One ear bent awkwardly, as if it had once been hurt and never healed properly. Its eyes, dark and cautious, followed Thomas’s every movement—not with fear, but with tired curiosity. The kind that comes after you’ve learned not to expect much from people.
Thomas stood there longer than he meant to. Finally, he sighed, took off his jacket, and draped it gently over the dog.
“Alright,” he murmured. “Let’s go home.”
He named the dog Milo, mostly because it was short and easy to say. Milo followed him everywhere from that moment on—through the narrow hallway of the apartment, across the kitchen tiles, and into the quiet corners of Thomas’s life that had been empty for years. Milo didn’t bark much. He didn’t demand attention. He simply stayed close, like he understood that some people needed company without noise.
Thomas lived alone. He worked long hours and spoke to few people. His days were predictable, his nights quiet. But Milo changed the rhythm of everything. There were morning walks now, even when Thomas didn’t feel like getting out of bed. There were soft paws following him from room to room. There was a living presence waiting at the door when he came home, tail wagging as if Thomas were the most important thing in the world.
Slowly, without realizing it, Thomas began talking again. Not to people—but to Milo. He talked while cooking, while folding laundry, while sitting on the floor late at night when sleep wouldn’t come. Milo listened with the seriousness of someone entrusted with important secrets. He rested his head on Thomas’s knee and stayed there, steady and warm.
Years passed that way. Milo grew older. His fur grayed around the muzzle. His walks became slower, his naps longer. Thomas noticed these changes with a quiet ache he didn’t know how to name. He adjusted their routine—shorter walks, softer beds, food warmed just enough to be comforting.
One winter morning, Milo struggled to stand.
Thomas knelt beside him, heart pounding, whispering reassurances he desperately wanted to believe. The vet was gentle. The room was too quiet. Milo lay still on the table, breathing shallowly, eyes fixed on Thomas with the same trust he’d shown from the beginning.
Thomas held his paw.
“I’m here,” he said, voice breaking. “I’ve got you.”
Milo’s tail moved once, weakly. And then it stopped.
The apartment felt unbearably empty afterward. No soft footsteps. No waiting at the door. Thomas caught himself listening for sounds that would never come. He put Milo’s bowl away. He folded the old blanket but couldn’t bring himself to throw it out.
Weeks went by. Then months.
One evening, Thomas took a walk without realizing where he was going. He stopped at the old bus stop—the same broken bench, the same quiet corner of the street. Rain began to fall, light at first, then heavier. Thomas stood there, hands in his pockets, remembering.
He realized then something Milo had given him without asking for anything in return: connection. Responsibility. Love. Milo hadn’t just filled an empty space—he had taught Thomas how to care again.
Thomas went home that night and placed Milo’s collar on a shelf by the window. Not as a reminder of loss—but as proof that love, once given, never truly leaves.
And sometimes, years later, when the rain falls just right, Thomas swears he feels a familiar presence walking beside him—steady, loyal, and full of quiet devotion.
Because a dog’s love does not end when life does.
It stays.