Tiny Dog. Big Lessons.

And Yet Another Reason Skinny Culture Is a Problem

This is Cherry Bomb. My little tank.

A couple of weeks ago, my dog got attacked.

She is about 13 pounds of pure love and strong opinions. I call her my little tank. Her name is Cherry Bomb, which should tell you everything you need to know. She is small, she is mighty, and she will absolutely have feelings about your Amazon delivery van. She has strong opinions about bikes, scooters (those things are a menace), and any stranger giving off questionable vibes.

Small yes. But not weak. There’s a difference.

The woman holding the other dog’s leash was also small. But the similarity ends there. She was rail thin, and I’m not sure what/who told her that this dog was the right match for her

When her dog lunged, I watched what happened like it was in slow motion. The leash went taut, and she went with it, lurching forward like a flag in the wind. It was terrifying. She wasn’t holding the dog. The dog was holding her.

And then her dog had mine by the leg. Left haunch, to be exact.

Cherry fought to get herself free and won, but the dog grabbed her again, and I didn’t think. My body moved before my brain did, right into the middle of it, hands into the other dog’s mouth, prying my dog free. To be clear, this was NOT brave; it was reactive and honestly a little stupid, but when you’re someone’s mom, human or creature, you throw yourself in harm’s way to protect what’s yours. It’s just what you do.

Thankfully, the dog let go, and I walked away with all ten fingers. My dog walked away on four legs, though later I’d find a three-inch bite wound on her left butt-cheek, and I’d notice my own knees were bruised and skinned from hitting the pavement…and I tore some of my favorite leggings. But I digress!

The other owner never said a word. No, I’m sorry. Not an Are you okay? She just stood there, in shock, I assume. I didn’t stop to ask for her information. I picked up both of my dogs and ran because I wasn’t confident she could hold the leash if it happened again.

That image is what I keep returning to. Not just the attack — the moment after. Her just standing there, silent. And then just before it. The lunge, the jerk forward, her tiny body completely overtaken by the animal she was supposed to be in charge of.

And then my hands were in a dog’s mouth, and all I could think was: not her. Not now. It had been almost a year since I lost my other dog, and I was not losing another one on a Tuesday morning on the sidewalk.

I was going to get her out, even if that meant injury to myself. So I did.

And here’s what I’m not supposed to say, but I don’t give a f*ck, and I’m going to say it anyway: The owner was skinny. We’re talking 5’5”, maybe 105 pounds wet. And she was walking a large, reactive dog with zero ability to hold it.

If that’s your build and you want a dog with that kind of drive and reactivity, that’s a conversation worth having with yourself before you clip on the leash. Some dogs require more than good intentions. Maybe stick to Frenchie’s?

NOW. I want to be careful, because this isn’t about her specifically. It’s about what we’ve collectively agreed to value in women’s bodies and what that costs us when situations get real and physical and stop being about the runway or the red carpet.

We have spent decades telling women that smallness is the goal. Not strength, not capacity, not the ability to plant your feet and hold on. Just smallness. Lightness. Taking up less space. We reward it, we chase it, we build entire industries around it. We tell women to be less. Less weight, less presence, less physical force in the world, and then we are genuinely surprised when a woman cannot control a seventy-pound reactive dog.

Make it make sense!

That is not her failure. That is a cultural one.

I want to be clear about what I mean when I talk about capacity.

I’m not referring to a specific size or a specific routine, but something more fundamental. It’s the difference between a body you’ve learned to inhabit versus a body you’ve learned to display. I lift. I do Pilates. I’m 5’9”, about 145 pounds, and it took me years to STOP asking how does this body look and instead ask, what can this body do?

That shift changed everything. It changed how I move, how I respond, and how much I trust my body when I need to rely on it for strength.

It cannot be performed or faked because when the sh*t hits the fan, the right outfit and no amount of green juice will help you stand your ground when you’re in harm’s way.

Being small does not keep you safe. Looking like you have control is not the same as having it. And if you are holding the leash of something powerful — a dog, a life, your own nervous system, appearance will not save you.

Only capacity will.

My dog is fine, for what it’s worth. Maybe a bit clingier than usual and deeply suspicious of the corner where it happened, but the bite wound is healing, though it may take a year for the fur to fully grow back.

She is small. She is mighty. And she remains absolutely convinced she is the most formidable creature on the block.

She is not wrong.

Because that’s the thing about real resilience and strength. It doesn’t care how you look. It responds with power, and then it moves on.

Meanwhile, we’re out here still trying to make ourselves smaller. Still confusing less with better and still believing that looking like you have control is the same thing as actually having it.

It’s not.

When something real happens that is fast, physical, and unforgiving, your body is either prepared to meet it, or it isn’t. I’m glad mine was.

And my 13-pound dog?

She held her ground.