My friends call me Debby. Debby Downer. Actually, they don't. But I do, and if I'm not my own friend, then we've got big trouble.
So this past year has not been my best year, mentally healthily speaking. Something about grad school sucking the living soul out of me, quarter life crises, a severe lack of money and budgeting skills--really, who knows what's caused it? I think it's healthiest to blame all the single men in southern California.
At this low time in my life, I did what any self-respecting single 25 year old Mormon girl does. I adopted a dog. Yes. I'm dirt poor, depressed, shoulder-deep in student loans, and have very little soul left. This is the perfect time to become solely responsible for the care and maintenance of a living creature.
I've always always always wanted a dog. When I was a kid, my siblings and I got to the Sunday paper before Mom and Dad one week and drew cat and dog faces on all the people in it. We were pet-starved children. I told myself that as soon as I was able, I'd adopt a dog. I can't tell you how many hours Dan and I have spent looking at adorable pictures of puppies online and FREAKING out. All sorts of freaking over the adorableness. We spent our two week vacation to Europe talking about how I was going to name my dog "Bay-bee Dawwg" (insert awful voice here) and giggled the whole way through at least five countries.
In June, I decided to move into a house with some friends. This is the perfect house for a dog. It has a huge yard, front and back, that's completely enclosed. The house itself is pretty big, so he'd have plenty of room inside as well. I knew it was time.
So I started my search for the perfect dog. He had to be just the right size, have short, soft fur, floppy ears, and a goofy face. I researched breeds, visited animal shelters, spent hours online on craig's list and shelter websites. I thought I found one in July. He was adorable--just the right size, beautiful color, seemed very sweet. But something just didn't feel right. Later, at the end of August, I was considering two others at another shelter. They were all right, but again, I just didn't feel like either of them would be the best fit. Was I being too picky? Yes. But I figured, if I'm going to have this dog for the rest of its life, I want to get it right.
The end of September came and I was starting to think I'd just have to pick one and be okay with it. I really wanted to adopt before I went home the first weekend in October so that my family (aka Mom and Dad) could meet him and be okay with him coming home for a longer stay over Christmas break. The Saturday before I was supposed to leave, I had a few dogs in mind that I had seen online, but they were spread out all over and I would probably only have time to make it to one shelter. Frustrated, I headed to the shelter where I already had an approved application, even though I wasn't especially thrilled about what I saw online. The dog I most wanted to see there had kennel cough and couldn't be shown. They showed me another dog who was okay, but probably a little yappy. Then they brought him in.
(Warning! Because of high cheese levels, the remainder of this post not recommended for the lactose intolerant!)
He had the cutest little wrinkled eyebrows, the fuzziest little floppy ears ever, and had the softest, most beautiful, brownish reddish coat. This guy was a total lover. He just came right over and plopped himself down next to me and let me pet him to both our hearts' content. The shelter assistant knew it. I knew it. This was my dog. I finished the rest of the paperwork, worked out a schedule for him to be neutered and then turned over to me, and left the shelter nervous and excited. I called my roommate and told her what was going on.
(You were warned! The cheese is off the charts here! Stay away!)
You know how when you say something, and all the sudden it hits you that what you're saying is the complete truth? Well, when I told my roommate that I had found my dog, it hit me like that. I'm not saying it's destiny, or divine intervention, or anything like that. I just knew that I really had found my dog.
So, nearly two months later, what's happened to our depressed, crisis-riddled, soulless, dimeless heroine? I'm still pulling myself out of this depression, still questioning the direction my life is headed, still getting the soul sucked out of me, and still in horrendous debt. But I'll be okay. I wouldn't credit all of that to my dog, but there's no denying it. Life is just better when this little guy settles in to keep my feet warm at night.
(Epilogue: What do you know? Treaclyness unimpaired by subject's naughtiness! Subject has done his penance and is now licking peanut butter off my fingers. I submit there's nothing better than a keyboard covered in peanut butter and dog drool. Wait. What am I saying? That's sick.)
