The Dog Who Taught Me to Read

The Dog Who Taught Me to Read

Not all heroes wear capes. Some wear tiny Shakespearean costumes and solve mysteries on PBS.

His name was Wishbone, and he wasn’t just a clever Jack Russell Terrier—he was the reason I fell in love with storytelling in the first place. Long before I knew I was autistic, long before I had words for dyslexia or anxiety, I had Saturday mornings. I had Pop-Tarts. I had cartoons and quiet. And I had Wishbone.

For a kid who struggled with reading, who mixed up letters and fought against words that didn’t seem to want to stay still, books could feel like enemies. But when Wishbone told stories, he didn’t make me feel dumb or broken. He made me feel invited. He acted out adventures, played every character, and made the classics feel like fun—not schoolwork. Whether he was Sherlock Holmes, Robin Hood, or Odysseus, I was right there with him, absorbing every line like it was a secret spell to unlock the world.

I didn’t just want to read—I wanted to become a storyteller. I wanted to learn. I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it.

And slowly… I did.

That little dog taught me the power of voice, imagination, and being different. Wishbone was never the biggest or the strongest. He wasn’t a human. But he was wise, curious, brave—and funny as hell. Just like me.

So here’s to the dog who didn’t just tell stories… he changed my life.

Thank you, Wishbone. You’re the reason this quiet autistic, dyslexic kid grew up to be a writer. You opened the first door. And I’m still walking through it.

💖 Sensory Bonus: I had a strawberry Pop-Tart Frosty from Wendy’s while writing this. It was pure nostalgic bliss. It took me straight back to those safe, cozy mornings with Wishbone on the screen and dreams in my heart.