Family
The One Thing I Really Need in My Empty Nest
No one was more surprised than me.
Author Jennifer Cannon's dog, Matilda.
Courtesy Jennifer Cannon
Last fall, our youngest daughter, a junior in college at the time, was also working full-time at the Arizona Humane Society. We regularly exchanged photos of our family dog, Carmella, in New Jersey, and the array of dogs she was helping find their next — hopefully forever — homes.
At a certain point, she started sending photos of a little black dog with giant ears that stood straight up. My daughter would say, “Mom! Doesn't she look exactly like Carmie?” She did look a lot like our dog, who has big bat-like ears. I also implored her not to adopt a dog.
I knew my daughter had been feeling down, struggling with some heartache. Though I kept reminding her it was a terrible idea to take on the responsibility of a puppy, my maternal instinct told me it was inevitable.
The next thing I knew, this tiny dog with a sleek black coat and the cutest face — now named Matilda — became my daughter’s new darling pet. It quickly became clear, though, that Matilda being left alone in the apartment while my daughter spent hours away at school was not ideal.
My husband suggested she bring Matilda home for the Thanksgiving holiday and said it might be best for the dog to stay with us for a while. Along with being a sucker for a cute puppy, he thought she might also be a good companion for Carmella, our 5-year-old mutt.
Thoughts racing through my menopausal mind ran the gamut from empathy and understanding to resistance and resentment. I felt Matilda’s moving in was being forced upon me.
My daughter was helpful and, for the most part, Carmella was tolerating Matilda, who we discovered was a “marker.” Her go-to spot (pun intended) was our carpeted front room, which we dubbed “the bombing range,” as we tried to keep up with frequent deposits of poop and pee.
Then came the winter of early 2026, the harshest I’ve experienced in the 20 years we’ve lived in New Jersey. The streets and our backyard were solid blocks of snow and ice for weeks. It was a challenge to get the dogs outside for regular exercise — let alone to do their regular deposits in subzero temps.
With my daughter back at school, I became the full-fledged dog trainer of Matilda, also known as the tiny dictator of us and her canine roommate. There were days when I was so frustrated I cried and imagined (only briefly, and to my daughter’s horror) rehoming her.
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Because she had so much energy, I knew — in the same way that moms know how to occupy and tire young children — that creating a routine and getting her outside was key to improving behavior. Before I knew it, the early starts to each day became normal and, together with our other dog, we were walking for a mile or more three times daily. Even in moments of extreme frustration, it was hard to stay mad at this 10-pound bundle of joy. Her questioning eyes told me she only wanted my affection and approval.
As weeks turned into months, we earned each other’s trust. She wormed her way into my heart completely, filling my empty nest with the daily routine and activity it had been missing since my daughters left for college. When I found out my mother died in January 2026 (we hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in 17 years), Matilda licked my tears alongside Carmella.
Matilda has become my shadow, this silly, stubborn pup who sits outside the bathroom door with her canine sister, ever vigilant while I shower. In the same way my husband and I used to talk about the daily happenings of our kids, we find ourselves frequently discussing or calling attention to whatever cuteness the dogs are displaying.
Matilda knows that for about an hour each afternoon, we will have dedicated snuggle time while I read or nap. Her favorite spot is right above my head, curled into a tight ball on the back of the couch. Her occasional groans, deep sighs — and sometimes the faint whistle of passing gas — let me know she feels safe and content.
We are approaching the one-year mark since Matilda arrived and shook up my too-comfortable, too-sedentary middle-aged world. She wakes each morning with the exuberance of a toddler, minus the tantrums. Her personality is infectious, and I can’t imagine life without her and her silky, soft belly waiting to be scratched. She’s much too busy to be a lap dog, but is never far from my side. And there are, officially, a lot fewer indoor accidents.
Matilda has also greatly improved Carmella’s health (she’s lost 2 pounds) and quality of life. Their daily wrestling, usually instigated by one of them rolling over and showing a belly — the invitation to play — is hysterical to watch. They chew each other’s necks, then break to race down the hallway and back at full speed. Matilda is never tired.
They say having a pet adds longevity to our lives. It’s so obvious to me now, as I’ve become a complete mush for this dog who injects positive energy into me each day.
Maybe the universe knew Matilda was just what my empty nest needed. I know now, without a doubt, that I need Matilda as much as she needs me.
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