This morning I lay in the bathtub thinking how wonderful it

Anne Frank once wrote with the innocence of youth: “This morning I lay in the bathtub thinking how wonderful it would be if I had a dog like Rin Tin Tin. I’d call him Rin Tin Tin too, and I’d take him to school with me, where he could stay in the janitor’s room or by the bicycle racks when the weather was good.” At first, these words appear light and playful, the daydream of a child. Yet, when we remember their origin — written by a girl hidden away during the darkest days of war — they take on the depth of a prayer, a symbol of yearning for freedom, for companionship, and for the simplicity of a normal life.

The bathtub becomes more than porcelain and water; it is her sanctuary of thought, the quiet space where she could still imagine a world untouched by terror. The dog, Rin Tin Tin, represents more than a pet. He is loyalty, protection, joy, and escape. In her imagination, Anne was not confined to the Secret Annex but walking freely to school, her faithful friend at her side. To us, her words remind that even in captivity, the human spirit can still dream of gentleness and hope.

Anne’s longing for a dog connects her to an ancient truth: that man and beast share a bond of trust and love, a companionship that eases burdens. In Homer’s Odyssey, the old hound Argos waited twenty years for his master Odysseus, recognizing him even when all others could not. Just as Argos symbolizes loyalty, Rin Tin Tin symbolized to Anne the comfort of constancy, a presence that could not be stolen by war or fear. Even in imagining, she found strength.

Her words strike us with deeper pain because we know the truth she could not escape: that she did not live the simple life of a schoolgirl with her dog by her side. And yet, her dream was powerful enough to outlive her years, reaching us across time. In this, she teaches us that imagination is not a child’s weakness, but a fortress of the soul. Even in darkness, the ability to dream of light is an act of courage.

Think of Viktor Frankl, another witness of that same era, who wrote that those who survived the camps were often those who held on to an image of love, of beauty, of life beyond the barbed wire. Anne’s dog was her way of holding onto that vision. It was not a grandiose plan of resistance, but a simple, tender desire — and it was enough to keep her humanity alive.

The lesson we must take is clear: never dismiss the power of small dreams. When life burdens you with sorrow, allow yourself to imagine simple joys — a friend, a song, a walk in the sun. These are not trivial comforts; they are lifelines, anchors to the truth that life is more than suffering. And when you see others weighed down, remember that sometimes, the gift of hope comes not in grand gestures, but in the gentleness of loyalty, as simple as a dog waiting by the door.

Practical action flows from this wisdom. In your darkest hours, create a space where your mind can wander toward joy. Write, dream, sketch, or simply sit in silence and imagine a life of warmth. And if you are able, be Rin Tin Tin for someone else — be their loyal friend, their comfort in storm, their reminder that life still holds gentleness. For in doing so, you become not just their companion, but their hope.

Thus, Anne Frank’s words are more than the musings of a child. They are a legacy of the indomitable human spirit, which, even when trapped in hiding, still dares to imagine a dog waiting by the bicycle racks, the sun shining, and life unfolding as it should. Let us honor her memory not with sorrow alone, but by holding fast to dreams, no matter how small, for they are the seeds of endurance and the roots of our shared humanity.