Harvey & Me my Shadow with a Tail

If you'd asked me a few years ago whether I needed a service dog, I probably would've laughed—or cried, depending on the day. I knew I was chronically ill. I knew I was disabled. But I didn’t know just how much I was trying to survive alone until Harvey came along and quietly, fiercely changed everything.

Harvey didn’t arrive with a certificate or a vest. He didn’t need to. He came with eyes that watched me more closely than any doctor ever had, and instincts that knew when I was struggling before I even said a word. When we first met, he was curled up in a cage, small and scared. The moment our eyes met, I burst into tears. Not the polite kind of tears you see in adverts with soft music in the background—I mean the full-body, chest-cracking, snot bubbleing kind. The kind that says, "It's you. You're mine."

That night, I didn’t sleep. I lay there watching him breathe, terrified I’d mess it up. I hadn’t planned to get a service dog. I thought I was just getting a puppy. But Harvey had other ideas.

How He Became My Lifeline

My health had been declining for some time—a mix of Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, Chiari Malformation, POTS, degenerative hearing loss, sleep apnea, and the ever-rotating carousel of symptoms that come with being medically complex. I didn’t expect Harvey to do more than keep me company. But he started watching me. Not in the way pets do when they want food, but in a way that said: I see you.

When I stopped breathing in my sleep, he would wake me. When I got dizzy or unsteady, he was already under my hand. When I was in pain, he wouldn't leave my side.

It wasn’t training. Not at first. It was just him.

Over time, we learned each other's rhythms. I taught him words. He taught me trust. We played games to keep his clever brain occupied, and he took on tasks without being asked. He uses paw buttons to tell me when he needs to go outside. He presses "pee pee and kakka" like some four-legged genius with a toddler's humour.

And when things get serious? He's all business. He knows the signs of a flare. He knows the signs of a shut-down. He knows me better than I sometimes know myself.

Service Dog? Yes. And No. And Absolutely.

Harvey doesn't wear a vest. He doesn't go everywhere with me. He gets overwhelmed by unexpected changes, loud noises, and chaotic environments. But in the places that matter—at home, in bed, in the quiet aftermath of pain or fear—he is more service dog than any label could ever contain.

Legally, under the Equality Act 2010 in the UK, Harvey would absolutely qualify. He performs trained, necessary tasks that mitigate the impact of my disability. He's not just an emotional support animal. He's a medical alert dog, a physical aid, and an emotional anchor. And while he may not have come from a charity, he has trained himself around my needs. That counts.

Because this isn’t about bureaucracy. It’s about survival. It’s about trust. It’s about waking up in the middle of the night, gasping for air, and finding a dog with his paw on your chest saying, "I’ve got you."

The Emotional Weight of Loving a Dog Like This

Having a service dog or a dogs like Harvey, means never being alone. That sounds beautiful, and it is. But it also means being seen all the time. There’s no hiding from him. If I’m unwell, he knows. If I’m scared, he knows. And he doesn’t give me space to pretend otherwise.

There’s grief in that. Grief for the person I used to be. Grief for the fact that I need him. And, if I'm honest, a slow-burning anticipatory grief for the day I will have to let him go.

But there’s also joy.

There’s the joy of being known without needing to explain. Of being safe without asking for help. Of seeing him stretch out in the sun after a long night of watching over me and knowing, somehow, he feels proud.

What the Research Says

Harvey may be extraordinary, but he isn’t alone. Increasingly, research is confirming what many of us living with chronic illness already know: dogs like Harvey aren’t just cute—they’re clinical. In a world where appointments take months, diagnoses take years, and empathy takes a nosedive the moment you need a mobility aid, a well-trained dog is sometimes the most effective healthcare provider you’ll meet.

Take a 2020 study from Frontiers in Veterinary Science, for example, which found that service dogs had a measurable positive impact on veterans with PTSD, reducing symptoms and improving quality of life: Vincent et al., 2020.

A 2012 study in Disability and Rehabilitation explored how individuals with physical disabilities experienced improved psychosocial health and mobility when partnered with service dogs: Winkle et al., 2012.

Meanwhile, researchers have noted a reduction in cortisol levels when individuals interact with service dogs—a measurable dip in stress that, frankly, most GPs can’t provide unless they’ve got a golden retriever in the exam room: Virués-Ortega et al., 2012.

And in 2023, a paper in Animals confirmed what many of us whisper into our dog’s fur during a particularly rough flare: that the bond itself helps regulate emotions, reduce executive dysfunction, and provide vital mental scaffolding during chronic health episodes: Gee et al., 2023.

Final Thoughts: Not All Service Dogs Wear Capes

Harvey isn’t perfect. He’s nervous, opinionated, and very attached to his routine. But then again, so am I. He fits me. He chose this work. And I choose him back, every day.

If you ever see us and wonder if he's "really" a service dog, let me assure you: he’s more than that. He is my shadow with a tail. My guardian with four paws. My best friend.

He didn’t just change my life. In some ways he made it possible again.