Years ago, while our Doberman Keno was still alive, my husband and I started having conversations about the future.
Not in a dramatic way. We weren’t sitting across from each other making grand plans or preparing for the worst. It was more casual than that, the way some of the most important conversations tend to be. Something would happen during the day, I’d mention a symptom or an adjustment I’d made, and eventually one of us would say something about what life might look like down the road.
We didn’t know what multiple sclerosis would bring. No one does. That’s one of the difficult things about living with it. You learn to make peace with a certain amount of uncertainty, even when you’d much rather have a schedule, a checklist, or at least a decent preview of coming attractions.
At the time, the idea of a service dog for multiple sclerosis still felt far away. I could walk, travel, exercise, and move through most days looking perfectly fine from the outside. But we were beginning to notice small changes that were easier to talk about when they were still small.
My balance was becoming less predictable. Crowded places were harder than they used to be. Busy stores, too much movement, too much visual stimulation, and uneven ground all required more thought than I wanted to admit. I was learning to scan for handrails, sturdy furniture, grocery carts, and anything else that could help me feel grounded. Apparently, anything to stop the grocery store curtsy!
Most of the time, I didn’t think of those things as needing help. I thought of them as being practical.
There’s a difference, at least in my mind.
Practical felt acceptable. Needing help felt much harder.
I’ve always valued independence, and for a long time I thought independence meant doing as much as possible on my own. If I could find a workaround, I was fine. If I could push through, I was fine. If I could adapt quietly enough that no one else noticed, I was definitely fine.
Except, of course, that “fine” can become a very flexible word.
A Service Dog for Multiple Sclerosis Wasn’t About Giving Up
Somewhere in those conversations, we began talking about the possibility of a service dog. Not immediately. Not with a plan already in place. Just as an idea that kept returning every now and then, like something patiently waiting for us to be ready. Under the ADA, service animals are dogs trained to do work or perform tasks for a person with a disability, but at that point, the idea still felt much more personal than practical.
We knew that if we ever welcomed another dog into our family after Keno, we’d want to train him with a purpose. Not because I was giving up. Not because I thought I could no longer live fully. Quite the opposite.
I wanted to stay active for as long as possible.
I wanted to keep traveling.
I wanted to keep walking into stores, visiting new places, spending time with family, and saying yes to life without measuring every decision against what my body might decide to do that day.
That was the part that slowly changed my thinking.
A service dog for multiple sclerosis wasn’t about what MS had taken away. It was about protecting what was still possible.
That distinction mattered to me.
It still does.
Preparing Instead of Waiting
Eventually, those early conversations became more real. We researched. We talked. We imagined what it would look like, and we also questioned whether we’d completely lost our minds. Training a service dog isn’t a small decision. Training a Doberman puppy as a service dog may occasionally make you question every life choice that led you to that point.
Then Whiskey came home.
He didn’t arrive as an answer, exactly. He arrived as a puppy, which means he arrived with oversized paws, sharp little teeth, endless curiosity, and the confidence of someone who’d never once questioned whether the world existed for his entertainment.
There was no vest. No polished obedience. No graceful service dog moment that made everyone stop and admire the beautiful partnership unfolding before them.
There was just Whiskey.
And there was us, learning.
In the beginning, it would’ve been easy for someone to look at him and see only a puppy. A very busy puppy. A puppy who needed training, structure, patience, consistency, and probably fewer opinions about household rules.
But I saw more than that.
I saw the beginning of a decision we’d made long before he was born.
Whiskey exists because we decided to prepare instead of wait.
He exists because my husband and I were willing to have honest conversations about what multiple sclerosis might mean for our future.
He exists because I had to learn that accepting help isn’t the same as surrendering independence.
That lesson hasn’t come easily.
I still wrestle with it. There are still days when I want to believe that if I can manage something by myself, then I should. But living with a chronic illness has a way of challenging the stories you tell yourself about strength. Sometimes strength is pushing through. Sometimes strength is admitting that pushing through isn’t always the wisest plan.
And sometimes strength has four paws and a name like Whiskey.
What The Whiskey Project Is Really About
Most people will probably think The Whiskey Project is about training a service dog for multiple sclerosis. In some ways, it is. There’ll be plenty to share about training, setbacks, public access, Doberman stereotypes, owner-training, and all the funny, frustrating, humbling moments that come with trying to raise a working dog while also living with a body that doesn’t always follow directions.
But underneath all of that, The Whiskey Project is really about learning a new way forward.
It’s about mobility and strength.
It’s about staying engaged in life instead of slowly shrinking around limitations.
It’s about the quiet courage it takes to admit that the goal was never to do everything alone. The goal was to keep living.
Whiskey is still learning, and so am I.
Neither one of us has this all figured out. He’s not a finished service dog, and I’m not a finished version of myself. We’re both works in progress, which may be exactly why this story matters to me so much.
Because life with multiple sclerosis isn’t a straight line. It’s a series of adjustments, surprises, losses, gains, workarounds, laughter, frustration, faith, and grace.
Whiskey exists because I want to keep moving through all of it.
Not perfectly.
Not independently in the way I once imagined.
But forward.
And for now, forward is enough.
