All my life I wanted a puppy. Throughout my childhood, we moved around frequently, never staying in a place more than three or four years at a time. Moving that often as a kid was not easy, and I imagine very difficult for my parents. Though it was scary and often lonely to start all over in a new corner of the country, my brother and I learned how to adapt to new situations, make friends quickly, be independent, and we learned the value of our own friendship. Henry and I were always close as children and remain so to this day, I've always know he has my back. We were exposed to many regions with different cultures, prejudices, geography, dominant religions, and mannerisms. Ranging from the safe affluent suburbs of the Bay Area that are relative multicultural utopias to the industrial-scale corruption, racism, and poverty of New Orleans, we were exposed to a rich cross section of the country.
It's lonely when you're always on the run.
As a child, I would envy other kids and their multi-year friendships. It's hard when you never feel like you belong anywhere or have any control over where you'll end up next. Sometimes it didn't always feel like it was worth the effort to make new friends and try again. I wished for closer cousins to play with, for long-term friends who wouldn't see me as an outsider. The wish to belong to a group, to be loved, and some semblance of permanence manifested itself in a desire for a puppy. A friend who would always be there and wouldn't judge you for not giving a crap about Texas football.
A canine member of the family was never in the cards for us. Various gerbils, hamsters, reptiles, and cockatiels came in and out of our life, always separated by a wall of glass or wire. We loved them, but you can't take a hamster to the beach. An iguana doesn't want a hug. Good luck teaching a turtle fetch. There's no affection on a gerbil's face when you come home after school.
I developed a fantasy in my mind for what stability and life should look like. My desire for permanence and control of my life became a desire to belong somewhere and to have a dog. Of course it's imperfect and flawed, but it's what happened.
In 2014, my long-term boyfriend and I were looking into golden retriever breeders. We had just moved into a house, I had a good job, the timing seemed right. I also was operating on the flawed belief that a puppy would magically make a dead-end relationship viable and teach us the magic of love, hard work, exercise, and bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. I was projecting my childhood fantasy onto an already broken relationship thinking that a puppy would be the magical fix-it that would save everything.
The relationship fell apart, of course, and thankfully. The future family house became an empty barren place, a prison of sorts, a manifestation of failed... everything. A single woman with a job, no local friends, too many responsibilities, and a boatload of depression couldn't raise a puppy on her own. Time to give up the ghost.
Months wear on, you find new outlets, decide it's time you do something about the listlessness inside, and slowly build a new world for yourself. But if you're being honest it's mostly coping mechanisms and distractions. In the scheme of things, rock climbing and vegan chocolate chip cookies are pretty good coping mechanisms, so that's an improvement. What the hell, you're already at lonely messed-up rock bottom, why not get a dog? Of course you have to revise "the Dream" irrational Miracle Puppy can't happen because you're to afraid to take the plunge by yourself. You lower your expectations and look into adopting adult dogs.
You don't have faith in yourself or ability to do anything right so you talk to "professionals" to dog rescues that foster animals in people's homes. They have to know what's best. Somehow, you get sold on a sweet dog who is ten years old. Of course he's the nicest thing. Housebroken, not destructive, quiet, loves hugs. So easy. He makes the empty house start to feel like home. You can't help but love him. But he's ten. A ten-year-old dog won't be here long. Turns out he has severe arthritis and you can't take him along on the 45 minute hikes to your favorite climbing spots that the rescue organization told you he could go on. Now your friend becomes a burden, you're struggling to find a dog sitter every weekend or give up climbing. And pushing yourself climbing is honestly the only thing that's really keeping you sane these days. Literally stuck between the rock and a hard place.
Life goes on. You make a series of compromises, You do the best you can. Eventually, you have to put the ten-year-old dog you love so dearly to sleep. He was in your life for less than six months and now you know a new level of grief and guilt and emptiness.
But you're bolder now, you're stronger than you were a year ago. The grief and guilt and depression and loneliness and self-hatred isn't so bad anymore. You're finding your voice and that's honestly really fucking awesome. You've learned some lessons. There are things you will and won't compromise on now. And you decide fuck it, it's time for another dog, and I'm really going to go for it this time. You begin the search for a young, active, trainable dog that you can take climbing.
Shelter dogs are not easy to raise. Puppies are not easy to raise. Generally, training dogs to be well-behaved and accompany you in public is not a simple task. It's foolish to assume that a puppy or shelter dog will come pre-programmed with trained behavior. It's foolish to assume that you can trust any new animal. When I met a small black lab in a local shelter, I knew I had a challenge ahead of me, but I was hopeful. I saw a young girl who needed more exercise and structure in her life, and honestly, that reminds me of myself- a wayward lady who needs direction and can never have enough exercise.
We made leaps and bounds with obedience training. It's really been a pleasure to share your days with a vital little bundle of manic dog energy. The joy of youth, happiness, and adventure is contagious. But never for a moment think it's easy. The theme with my life has been as soon as I get lulled into thinking I've got it figured out, it all comes crashing down.
The more you open your heart again to love, the more of yourself becomes vulnerable to pain. The little puppy that represented so much promise and hope ate a bottle of Aleve and needs IV fluids, she screams when you insert the needle. Late at night her breathing becomes labored and hoarse, you call the emergency vet but options are grim. The next morning, you leave her behind at the animal hospital and come home shattered.
Wandering through the streets of your neighborhood you feel aimless again. The listlessness is back. A phone call from the vet brings hope-- you are not out of the woods yet, but there's some silver light around the dark clouds in your mind.
Now she's home in a puddle on the couch. Hopped up on a cocktail of drugs and a special diet. You have to hold her mouth open while you spoon-feed her. She hates it, you hate it. You're not sure if this was a freak accident or a sign from some higher power that you're destined to be a failure for life. Well-meaning friends and family don't hesitate to share their disconnected and unwelcome advice. The days become a monotonous trudge of medication, waiting, and a creeping sense of dread.
You come to realize that it doesn't matter what you wanted in the past, you're stuck in this present moment and you have to do the best with what you have.
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