It’s a Hood, Not a Mask

There is a small correction I have found myself making a lot lately, and every time it happens I remind myself that most people are coming from a place of curiosity. Someone new to pup play sees the ears, the muzzle, the colors, and the expressions built into our gear, and the easiest word their brain reaches for is usually “mask.”

I completely understand why. From the outside looking in, that seems like the obvious description. We put something over our face and suddenly the world sees something different, so calling it a mask feels natural. When someone says it, I usually just smile and gently say, “Thank you, but we actually call it a hood.”

That correction is not about gatekeeping terminology or making someone feel like they messed up. It is about helping people understand that the language we use often carries meaning, and in pup play, a hood and a mask represent two very different things. A lot of people assume the hood is something we put on because we want to become someone else, but for many pups the experience is actually the opposite. The hood is not where we disappear. It is where a part of ourselves finally gets permission to be seen.

The interesting thing is that I know exactly what it feels like to wear a mask, but the mask I wore for years was never made out of leather, neoprene, or silicone. It was the one I wore while trying to convince the world that everything was okay during a time when my marriage was struggling under the weight of addiction and substance abuse. I smiled, I showed up, I went to work, I went to events, and I kept moving forward because I thought if I could hold everything together from the outside then maybe nobody would notice how much everything was changing behind the scenes.

When you love someone who is struggling with addiction, life becomes complicated in ways that are difficult to explain. You find yourself carrying things you never expected to carry, and sometimes you convince yourself that protecting the person you love means protecting the image that everything is okay. The mask becomes familiar because you wear it every day. You learn how to smile at the right moments, how to answer questions without really answering them, and how to keep moving forward because stopping long enough to acknowledge the truth means admitting just how much things have changed.

One of the hardest parts of loving someone through addiction was that the person I loved was still there, but at times it felt like I was chasing a ghost with a heartbeat. There is a unique kind of grief that comes from missing someone who is standing right in front of you. I was holding onto memories, moments, and glimpses of the person I knew while also trying to survive the reality of what addiction was doing to both of us.

For a long time, I genuinely thought I was doing a great job wearing that mask. I thought I had everyone convinced because, in many ways, I had convinced myself. I believed if I could just keep showing up, keep smiling, and keep holding everything together, maybe things would eventually go back to the way they were. Looking back now, I realize the people closest to me saw more than I knew. They might not have known every detail of what was happening, but they could see the weight I was carrying. They could see the joy getting quieter. They could see pieces of me slowly being tucked away because so much energy was going into protecting something that was already slipping away.

That is why it feels strange sometimes when people assume my pup hood is the thing I use to hide. The truth is my hood has been one of the things that helped me stop hiding.

Ruff was not created by a piece of gear, and he was not something that magically appeared the first time I put on a hood. That playful, chaotic, curious, affectionate energy was always there. There were just periods of my life where it became harder to access because other things were taking up so much space. The hood gave me permission to reconnect with a part of myself that had been patiently waiting.

A couple of weeks ago my dad said something that really stuck with me. He told me that he felt like he had his son back. That was one of those comments that landed harder than I expected because it confirmed something I had already started to feel myself. The happiness was coming back. The playfulness was coming back. The ridiculous little moments that make me who I am were coming back. The mask I thought nobody noticed was finally coming off, and apparently the people who loved me could see the difference.

Over the years, my hoods have changed because I have changed, but that does not mean the older versions disappeared. Anyone who has followed my journey knows there have been a lot of different versions of Ruff. Different colors, different designs, different expressions, and different memories attached to each one. They are not replacements for each other. They are snapshots of different parts of my journey, and every single one is still a part of the pup I am today.

My oldest hood is a black and red leather hood that has been with me for almost 20 years. I purchased it after discovering the playful side of pup play at IML in 2005, and today I think of that one as OG Ruff. That hood represents discovery. It represents finding something that clicked before I even fully understood why it clicked. It was the beginning of realizing there was an entire community that understood this playful energy and that maybe this part of me had a place where it belonged.

Years later came Ruff 1.0, my blue neoprene hood that I purchased in 2018 when I attended my first pup-focused event, Spring Training. I was re-exploring pup play at a time when my husband was dealing with addiction and life behind the scenes was much heavier than many people realized. Looking back now, that hood means even more to me because while I was wearing one mask to tell the world everything was okay, Ruff was quietly reminding me that joy and playfulness were still there.

In 2024, Ruff 1.5 arrived with my all-yellow MistrBear hood. This version felt brighter and more reflective of the puppy energy people started recognizing. It represented a pup who was becoming more comfortable being seen, being silly, and taking up space instead of constantly shrinking himself down.

Shortly after my divorce in 2025 came Ruff 2.0, the yellow and orange MistrBear hood that most people recognize today. That hood came during a period of rediscovery, rebuilding, and allowing myself to move forward. It carries so many memories of new friendships, adventures, events, and moments where I stopped apologizing for being exactly the pup I am.

This year brought even more expressions of Ruff. Ruff 2.5 came along as my full Mr. S yellow and orange hood, and Leather Ruff arrived as my full custom leather hood complete with the red mohawk. They show different sides of the same pup, whether that side is playful, confident, chaotic, or just ready for the next adventure.

Even Ruff 1.0 still gets to show up in new ways as the base for my Rubber Drone hood. When I replace the muzzle with a gas mask but still have those blue ears poking through, it is a reminder that these versions do not disappear. They adapt. They grow. They come along for the ride.

I still wear all of them because they are all still Ruff. They are not old versions that were replaced by something newer or better. They are pieces of my story, and each one carries a part of the journey that got me here.

That is why calling it “just a mask” never quite captures what many of us experience. A mask suggests pretending to be something you are not. For many pups, a hood creates space to embrace something you have always been. It can help quiet the expectations and responsibilities we carry every day. It can unlock confidence, vulnerability, affection, silliness, and the simple joy of existing without constantly worrying about how the world expects you to act.

Sometimes that means having deep conversations about identity, community, and self-discovery. Sometimes that means running around with zoomies, barking with your friends, and remembering that life does not always have to be so serious. Both of those things can exist together because pup play has room for all of it.

The hood does not make someone a pup. There are amazing pups who do not own one, do not want one, or do not need one. Gear is never what defines us. The heart behind it does.

So if you are new and you call it a mask, please know most of us understand what you mean. We have all had moments where we learned the language of a new community. When someone gently says, “Actually, I call it my hood,” they are probably not correcting you as much as they are inviting you to understand why that difference matters.

Because a lot of us know what wearing a mask actually feels like. For me, my pup hood was never the mask I put on. It became one of the things that helped me finally take the old one off.

I didn’t create Ruff. I rediscovered him.