“Big Mama”

The Rottweiler Who Carried My Soul

On July 11th, 2025, the world shifted under my feet. It didn’t make a sound—just a quiet, soul-deep stillness that told me something sacred had slipped through this world and back into God’s hands.

Honey "Big Mama" Sloanstra, my 8-year-old Rottweiler, my certified PTSD psychological service dog, my shadow, my strength... had taken her final breath.

For eight years, she walked every step beside me—every sidewalk crack, every hurdle of reentry, during my darkest days and through my toughest nights, early morning, and everything in between. She didn’t miss a moment. And now, her absence is louder than most people’s presence.

Honey was born on Halloween in 2017—October 31st. Fitting, because she had a mystic in her. Her eyes were old with wisdom that gleamed out from them. Something deep. She wasn’t just smart. She wasn’t just trained. She was called. From the moment we locked eyes, I knew: she wasn’t coming into my life as a pet. She was coming to pull me back from the edge.

I was living with PTSD—heavy, unrelenting, layered trauma. The kind that rewires your body to flinch at kindness and brace for betrayal. Honey didn’t ask questions. She didn’t need an intake form. She saw it all—and stayed.

We called her Big Mama, because that’s what she was. She didn’t just have the frame of a protector—she had the spirit of a grandmother. A southern, soul-cooked, wisdom-drenched elder who somehow got reincarnated into a Rottweiler. She moved with intention. She sat like a queen. She watched as though she had seen it all before—and the stature of her presence showed she was praying all the way through it. It was ancestral. Maternal. Healing.

When I dissociated, she pressed her weight against my legs and brought me home. When panic crept in, her head nudged under my hand like, “Come back, baby. I got you.” When nightmares cracked through the night, she was already up—watching, waiting, ready.

Her silence said everything. What Honey did wasn’t magic. It was medicine. Proven, peer-reviewed, life-saving medicine. Honey was a one-dog clinical trial wrapped in fur and fierce devotion.

Honey wasn’t just a therapy dog. She was my accountability partner. My protector. My therapist. My sanctuary. My best friend. My spiritual mirror. She went everywhere with me. Every. Single. Day. In all eight years of her life, we were never apart more than a few hours.

She knew me better than any person on this planet ever could. Because we didn’t have conversations with words—we had conversations with looks and glances. With weight shifts and silent understanding.

When the end came... It was quiet. Gentle. She looked at me with those heavy-lidded eyes like she knew it was time. I held her head in my hands and whispered every thank-you I never got to say: "Thank you for keeping me alive." "Thank you for loving me when I was unlovable." "Thank you for being my anchor, my teacher, my warrior." And then... she was gone. Just like that... my heartbeat was cut in half.

“Big Mama" didn’t just serve one life—she impacted dozens. Maybe hundreds. Everyone who met her felt the vibration. People softened. Children smiled. Strangers asked, “What is it about her?” Now I know. She carried the medicine of presence. The divine assignment of being with someone—not fixing, not forcing, just staying.

Written in memory of Honey Sloanstra (10/31/2017 – 07/11/2025)

What Honey Taught Me About Healing

Losing Honey forced me to assess her role through a practical, evidence-based lens. She wasn’t a pet. She was a structured part of my trauma recovery. And it wasn't just me—she was a stabilizing presence for my whole family and everyone who came through our home.

Therapy dogs are gaining serious traction in clinical spaces for a reason. According to a 2020 meta-analysis published in Frontiers in Psychology, animal-assisted interventions significantly reduce symptoms of PTSD, depression, and anxiety across a wide range of populations—including veterans, incarcerated individuals, and survivors of domestic violence. These results aren’t marginal. We're talking about an average reduction in PTSD symptoms by up to 35% with consistent canine interaction.

A 2018 study in the Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology found that service dogs reduced suicidal ideation in veterans by over 50%. Those numbers matter. They mean fewer funerals, fewer emergency room visits, and more families staying intact.

There’s a physiological explanation, too. When a therapy dog applies pressure to your legs or chest during a flashback, it activates the vagus nerve and brings your autonomic nervous system back into balance. That’s not abstract—that’s neurology. Dogs also reduce cortisol and increase oxytocin levels, as confirmed by multiple peer-reviewed studies published by the American Psychological Association and NIH. The result? Lower blood pressure, steadier breathing, and better emotional regulation.

Rottweilers in particular have been misunderstood for decades, but research is shifting that narrative.

A 2022 pilot study in the International Journal of Service Dog Training measured breed performance in emotional responsiveness and adaptability. Rottweilers scored in the top tier for emotional attunement, spatial awareness, and protective instinct—not aggression, but presence. They’re built to support, not to intimidate.

Honey had that presence, that's why we called her "Big Mama".  My house felt safer and nurtured under her watch. And I—someone shaped by the trauma of incarceration, abandonment, and systemic failure—felt regulated. That’s not easy to achieve. But she did it with consistency.

Routine is a vital part of trauma recovery, and Honey enforced it. Morning routines, meal schedules, and outings forced me to stay accountable. That structure helped rebuild my executive function—the very part of the brain trauma disrupts. This isn’t just personal narrative. It aligns with findings from the Journal of Psychiatric Research (2019), which noted cognitive improvements in individuals living with complex PTSD after three months of structured animal-assisted therapy.

Her work wasn’t just standard affection. It was about stability, accountability, and real-time therapeutic function. And her impact continues beyond her life.

If we don’t acknowledge the science and structure behind what dogs like Honey do, we risk reducing them to emotional novelties. They’re not. They’re operators in the recovery process.

To those considering a therapy dog for themselves or someone they love—especially in high-trauma environments like post-incarceration, recovery, or family reintegration—start researching now. 

Start here:

• National Service Animal Registry

• Assistance Dogs International

• U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs - Pets and PTSD

• Human-Animal Bond Research Institute

• Frontiers in Psychology - Animal-Assisted Interventions

  
  

Honey served her post. Now the responsibility shifts to us—to share the knowledge, apply the science, and honor the legacy of what trauma-informed animals are truly capable of.

I'll see you again at the rainbow bridge one day, Big Mama

-Troy Rienstra