Another Shot of Whiskey

On chaos, commitment, and the unconditional love of an 85-pound lap dog.

If there’s anything you could count on at the start of the NWSL,
it’s that you’d be overworked and underpaid.
You’d also probably have a new living arrangement every year.
You could wake up in Seattle and be told you’d been traded to Orlando—
with 48 hours to pick up your life and leave the city.

I know trades are a big part of professional sports,
but when you’re making $7–13k a year…
a cross-country move hits different.

Before our CBA, players could also be waived at any time.
There weren’t any guaranteed contracts.
Needless to say, it wasn’t exactly a stable lifestyle.

Which is why, when I told my family I’d be getting a dog at the end of 2020,
there was unanimous concern.

Not only did I want a dog—
I wanted a Rhodesian Ridgeback.
One that typically weighs between 90 and 120 pounds.

My desire for a dog started after falling in love with one of my teammate’s dogs.
Foster was a 75-pound Chesapeake Bay Retriever, and she completely stole my heart.

While I saw the work and commitment a dog required as a professional soccer player,
I also witnessed a bond that offered a kind of security
no job or home ever could.

Three days into being a dog mom,
I was googling her return policy.

I hadn’t slept more than two hours consecutively since Whiskey arrived.
I was at my wits’ end.

It was technically my offseason,
but I was two months out from preseason and already stressed.
I was also fully convinced I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.

I would never be free again.

As Whiskey got older, she tested limits I didn’t even know I had.
She racked up monthly vet bills for chronic ear infections—
a saga that would go on for four years.

She also had a long bout of GI issues during my first preseason with her,
waking me up every hour of the night.

There are plenty of girls in the league who have dogs—
and some of my closest friends are dog moms—
but I’d never heard of one who required as much as Whiskey did.

I spent what felt like endless money on vet visits, trainers, and meds.
Whiskey was a full-time job.

I envy people whose dogs sleep through the night,
don’t need a monthly vet budget,
and don’t pull so hard on walks they snap three different collars.

Whiskey was a lot.

Balancing a soccer career and a dog, in hindsight,
was a pretty wild obstacle to choose.

I’ve lost count of how many hours of sleep I’ve sacrificed because of her—
and as a professional athlete, sleep is essential.

I forgot to mention she also had separation anxiety.
So me being gone every other weekend for games across the country?
Another major challenge.

Gamedays were always hard for her as a puppy
because it meant long hours in her crate.

On one particularly unfortunate evening,
I hurt my knee during a game—
nothing super serious,
but after an MRI, it ended up being an MCL tear.

I say nothing super serious,
and I mean that comparatively to my other injuries.

Anyway, I got home and limped up the stairs to get Whiskey.
She was over-eager with her greeting,
and I could feel my temper rising.

All I wanted to do was lie down on the couch.
But I was determined to give her a one-mile walk.

We had just reached the halfway point
when it began to drizzle.

I groaned, knowing the walk home was about to be brutal.
Because in addition to being everything else she is,
Whiskey is also high-maintenance—
and water is a hard no.

She pinned her ears back, whimpered,
and started pulling harder on the leash.

After five minutes of her throwing a fit,
the collar snapped—
and Whiskey took off in a dead sprint.

I screamed and took off after her,
adrenaline somehow allowing me to run on my injured knee.

Within seconds, she was out of sight.

By the time I made it back to my apartment, I was a mess—
screaming, crying, unsure how I was going to find her.

When I got to my second-floor apartment,
I saw her curled up and shaking by the door.

That wasn’t the last time she had me spiraling.

Just last week, Whiskey was up from 1–7am.
I say Whiskey was up,
but what I really mean is we were up.

I drove to the emergency vet at 3:30am,
only to be turned away because they were at capacity.

Later that day, my mom asked how it went.
I smiled and told her Whiskey was fine—
we got some meds.

Then I looked at her and said,
“You want to know what’s crazy?
I did the math on how much I’ve spent on this dog.
If I didn’t have her, I’d probably be a homeowner by now.”

She shook her head and laughed.

Whiskey is now four years old.
And while she’s pushed me to my breaking point more times than I can count,
she’s hands down the best decision I’ve ever made in my life.

I’m fully aware I’m that obsessive dog mom.
And anyone who knows us will tell you I’ve spoiled her.

They’re not wrong.

But what they don’t see are the nights I sat on the bathroom floor,
unsure of how my life was falling apart—
how Whiskey would lick my face
and refuse to let a single tear hit the ground.

How on days I didn’t think I could get out of bed,
she made it known it was time for a walk.

The way she greets me like I hung the moon,
every single time I walk through the door.

How she made me feel safe when I was living alone for the first time.
How her insistence on being an 85-pound lap dog
actually calms my nervous system.

And how she’s taught me what unconditional love really looks like.

Of anyone in this world, Whiskey knows me best—
and we’ve never even had a conversation.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I talk to her all the time.
And I’m sure she understands me—
especially if food is involved.

But she and I have this quiet knowing.
She knows my tendencies.
My preferences.
My nuances.
And I know hers.

In September 2024,
I was sitting on my couch in Houston, Texas,
waiting for a call from my doctor with my MRI results.

My heart was racing almost as fast as my mind.
I’d already had four major surgeries,
but even before the call,
I had a feeling this might be it—for me and for my career.

Whiskey sat perched in my recliner by the window,
always preferring to be in the sun.

I sat curled in the corner of my couch.
My phone buzzed, and I answered on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi Havana, this is Dr. Phillips. I have your MRI results.”

I sat silently, eyes pressed closed.

“I’m going to be honest—your knee looks more like Swiss cheese.
It’s a real mess in there.”

I flinched at the analogy but forced out a laugh to fill the silence.

“I’ll get right to it.
You re-bucketed the bucket handle tear you did in 2022.
I’m not sure what you plan—”

She kept talking,
but I wasn’t listening anymore.

I thanked her and hung up.
And then I broke.

It was a silent cry—
the kind where the news hurts so much you feel numb.

As my first tear hit my shirt,
Whiskey snapped her head around.

She held my gaze for a moment,
watching as the tears kept falling.

Then she leapt from the recliner,
licked every single tear off my face,
and insisted that my lap was the best place to sit.

I wrapped my arms around her.

She cost me sleep, stability, and probably a mortgage—
but the irony is I spent half my paycheck trying to train her.

To sit.
To stay.
To come.
And to please, please not jump.

What I didn’t realize was that it was actually her who was training me.

She was teaching me to have gratitude for the food I eat,
even if it’s the exact same meal every day.

She was teaching me how healing a long walk can be.

She was teaching me how to greet those I love
as though it’s the best part of my day—every single day.

She was teaching me the importance of forgiveness,
because despite how many times I lost my temper,
she never held a grudge.

She was teaching me that no matter how many squirrels we see—
they are all very exciting.

The greatest lesson Whiskey has ever taught me is presence.

She is never in any moment except the exact one she’s living.

It’s such a simple and beautiful concept,
but as humans, I think it’s endlessly challenging.

We’re caught up in yesterday or tomorrow—
in the offhand comment from three days ago,
or the stranger who cut us off in traffic.

We so rarely let ourselves live inside the present moment,
and honor it for everything it is.

But Whiskey does.
Every single day.
And being loved by her has taught me to slow down,
to rise each morning and see the world through new eyes.

All I know is, at the end of the day,
I will always take another shot of Whiskey.