Alone, Not Lonely

I spend most of my time alone. I am a student at California State University, Northridge, earning a degree in screenwriting and a minor in popular culture studies. Although I love college very much, I am still just as isolated with 40,000 fellow students around me as I am sitting in bed reading. There are moments when I find myself gazing at groups of college girls, walking together and laughing at something I’ll never know. I wonder what it would be like to sit on the patio with your friends on a Sunday night or to go out to eat whenever we wanted. They look so happy together, and I seem so boring in comparison.

I have always been incredibly reserved, known for being quiet and soft-spoken. To make matters worse, my family moved around a lot as I grew up. “Aw, military?” Everyone asks. I would always reply simply, “No. It’s just the way things are.”

I can count my close friends on one hand. To a certain extent, this is perfect—fewer stronger relationships prevail over many superficial ones. However, most of them live in North Carolina, and the rest went to college out of state; leaving me and my lofty writing dreams all by myself. There is no one to text for a 3 PM coffee, no one to grab late dinner with. My voice is quick to wear down to a whimper whenever I do talk, simply because it is so underused.

Though I do not have many friends, I do have something special—a dog. The summer before my parents divorced, my mom finally decided that my constant begging for a puppy came with the acknowledgment of such a responsibility. At the time, we lived in Greenwich, Connecticut—our house completely surrounded by lush greenery and dark, damp paved roads. All I wanted was a puppy to set loose in our giant yard so I could watch it run wild. I wanted a friend to call my own, to be my own.

When at last I met her, I named her Scarlet. The name of a glamorous, beautiful movie star seemed appropriate for my Brussels Griffon—a tiny brown dog with the face of an Ewok. She was so tiny, I had to take care not to step on her with my 11-year-old feet. Scarlet was my prized possession. She was the baby I had always wanted and provided the uniquely perfect companionship of a doll that could stare back into your eyes with actual love and affection.

I wanted to do everything with Scarlet. I wanted a stroller, a front pack, clothes, her own bed, I even managed to get her a tiny, round suitcase in case she ever needed to attend a business trip. For the first few months of her life, I struggled through the painful process of shoving a pill down her throat when she spit it out of the cheese slice I had hidden it in. I measured out her food, dressed her for Halloween and wrapped Christmas gifts for her. I stared at my dark bedroom ceiling as she barked all night long in her crate before giving up and cuddling her in my bed with me. I even cleaned up what seemed to be an endless stream of pee with contentedness.

As the years rolled on, Scarlet and I got older, but never outgrew each other. We moved to Los Angeles, then to my hometown in North Carolina, then back to Los Angeles again. She stayed with me through every second, and although we have had other pets as well, none have been with us longer than Scarlet.

Eventually, I graduated from high school and decided to try to pursue my dream of being a screenwriter. My first year of college was lonely. I had just one friend I had known from high school, but even he wasn’t around that often. I focused on my schoolwork, savored my newfound independence, and allowed myself to evolve into the person I have wanted to become.

My first month of college, however, didn’t go as smoothly as I had hoped. One night before bed, I called my mom to check in. She told me that she was with Scarlet at the emergency vet. When Scarlet had gone to the bathroom, there was more blood than urine.

At first, I was cautious not to overreact. “So, what’s wrong?” I asked. She told me that Scarlet’s bladder was full of about 24 stones—a life-threatening amount. “Is she okay?” She told me probably, but no one really knew at the time. I hung up, and as if another being took control of my body, I began to sob. It was the first health issue Scarlet had ever faced. I wasn’t there.

For the first time since I met her, I was concerned about losing her. I was concerned about what it would feel like to lose someone or something for which I identified as a mother. It felt like my chest had caved in, and as if the entire ocean was behind my eyes. Although Scarlet was nine, it had never shone through her puppy-like enthusiasm. I waited patiently to hear back and went home to visit as soon as I could.

My family had lost dogs and cats (even a bunny) before, but it had never felt like this. Even the potential of losing her was something I have never experienced. At that moment, and the days following, I felt more lonely than I ever had. Not because I had no one to eat with or no one texting me daily just to say hello, but because I knew that somewhere in the world, my baby was struggling. Away from me.

The love and companionship I had felt from her were unlike any other I had known before, not because of how she treated me, but because of who I became when I had her. She taught me what it felt like to hold another life in my hands, to care more about the feelings of another being than my own. She showed me what it feels like to be proud of something or someone for no real reason, to say “good girl,” or “you’re so smart” for doing something as simple as sitting down. She was more than a dog to me because she represented my own capabilities in a loving relationship. She showed me that I can care for another unconditionally, I can worry even when there may not be anything to worry about. I hoped to the stars in the sky that I would have more time with her, if not years, then simply days.

After being put on a medicated diet, Scarlet has made the best recovery any dog her vet has ever seen with her condition. She is completely healthy and back to being my glamorous baby, Ewok. She even lives with me in my college dorm, cuddling with me in my bed just as we did almost ten years ago. We have come a long way together, and although we may not have much time left, not a moment of it will be wasted.

Scarlet is love to me. Although some might say she is just a dog, she is my baby, my daughter, my little companion for life. She unlocked something within me that not only allowed me to grow to a more compassionate, mature young woman, but she added so much joy to years of my life that were otherwise difficult. She was with me through separation, through meeting new people, through my growing family’s celebrations and sorrows, and loved me through every moment.

I don’t know how I will feel when I say goodbye to her for real, but I know that I will always be grateful to the way she introduced me to a new, true self of mine I had otherwise never been able to reach.

Although I may walk across campus gazing at other college girls in their friend groups or stare as people laugh over their dinners together, I still look forward to opening my apartment door and being greeted by her little black nose and big round eyes. She allows me to be alone yet never feel truly lonely, a feeling I am sure will last long past we go our separate ways. She is my love, my best friend, my baby. And I will never be truly lonely again.