I desperately want a dog, but I've been told I travel too much

Victoria Pratt once confessed with disarming honesty: “I desperately want a dog, but I’ve been told I travel too much, and I’m not allowed to have a dog.” At first, this seems the simple lament of one deprived of a beloved companion. Yet within it lies the tension of human life itself—the clash between freedom and responsibility, between the hunger for companionship and the demands of one’s calling. Her words are not merely about a dog, but about the sacrifices demanded by a restless life lived upon the road.

The ancients, too, wrestled with this truth. The philosopher Diogenes lived without home or hearth, wandering freely, but he also forwent the ties of family and comfort. He chose liberty, but in so doing, denied himself the sweetness of close bonds. On the other hand, the farmer, rooted to his land, enjoyed the loyalty of his household and animals, yet his life was bound to the soil. Pratt’s words reflect this eternal struggle: the traveler may behold the world’s wonders, but she must surrender the constancy of a loyal dog at her side.

There is something profoundly symbolic in the dog. Since the earliest days of humanity, the dog has stood as a sign of loyalty, protection, and companionship. From the hounds of the hunt to the faithful companions of soldiers, the dog embodies devotion that does not waver. Even in myth, Argos, the dog of Odysseus, waited twenty years for his master’s return, dying content only after he had seen him once more. Thus, Pratt’s longing is not trivial; it is the yearning for steadfastness in a life that is otherwise unsettled by constant travel.

Her lament also reveals the cost of ambition. To travel much is often a sign of success, of demand, of a life filled with opportunity. Yet every blessing casts a shadow. The more one is pulled outward into the world, the less one can sustain the quiet bonds of home. Pratt has been told she “is not allowed”—not by law, but by circumstance, by the wisdom of those who see that to bring a dog into such a life would be to neglect the very devotion the animal offers. Here lies a deeper truth: responsibility means sometimes denying ourselves what we most desire, out of love and respect for another being.

History offers us many such stories of sacrifice. Consider Alexander the Great, who marched across continents with his soldiers. He could conquer cities, command nations, but he could not settle long enough to enjoy the humble stability of home. His greatness cost him the intimacy of ordinary joys. So too does Pratt’s confession reveal a hidden nobility: she chooses not to claim what she cannot honor, not to take a dog only to abandon it to neglect. Her yearning is thus tempered by wisdom.

The lesson for us is clear: freedom and love must be balanced with responsibility. To desire companionship is natural, but to honor its demands is noble. When you long for something, ask yourself: can I care for it, can I give it the devotion it deserves? If the answer is no, then restraint becomes an act of love. For true wisdom is not only the pursuit of our desires, but the humility to recognize when our life cannot sustain them.

Practically, this means shaping our lives with intention. If one longs for the constancy of home, perhaps lessen the travels. If one must travel, then honor the sacrifices it requires, and do not bind others to burdens you cannot carry. In this way, you live with integrity, respecting not only your own heart but the lives of those who would share it.

Thus, Pratt’s words, though cloaked in the simplicity of longing for a dog, echo with timeless resonance. They remind us that the life of the traveler, though filled with wonder, is also marked by absence; that every choice carries its price; and that the truest act of love is sometimes not to claim, but to refrain. For in honoring what we cannot hold, we prove ourselves worthy of the loyalty we seek.