Before I had a dog

Before I got my dog was a strange time in my life. It was a time when everything seemed to be moving past me at warp speed, blurred around the edges and blowing harshly in the wind. Everything seemed just a little scary. There were shadows in every corner and question marks at the end of everyone's statements.

It was a time when my head spun. I felt like I was constantly trying to keep my head above water. It was the first time that I ever stayed up past my bedtime, the first time that I worked later than my parents, and the first time that I had a car. Or money. Or any real responsibility.

But it was the last time for more things than I had thought it would be.

Before I even thought of having a dog, a panic attack was something that other people have. That retched walk where I pulled at the roots of my hair and cried dry tears that choked up my screams was just a moment. A step in time that I had to go through because everyone was that stressed at the thought that everything had changed and I could never change it back, right? And after the retched walk, when I had sat down on the ground, a dog lay its head in my lap. But it wasn't my dog. That's when I first thought of getting a dog.

It was a time in which I envisioned having a dog. I wanted to go down to the beach and just sit on the sand, my dog beside me, their leash in my hand as we watched the surf together, waving in and out. I envisioned putting my arm around my dog and pretending to be annoyed by him licking my cheek. We would run on the sand together. We would splash each other with salty foam and my dog would swim to pick a ball out of the withdrawing sea.

I wanted to walk in the park. I walked another dog in a park when I was younger, and I would jog and the dog would jog too. Then when a stranger approached me and asked me questions that I didn't know the answer to, and asked me questions about my parents and how long I'd lived in the area, the dog pulled me away from the stranger and bolted home, towing me all the way. It scared my father. I never walked alone again.

But, if I had a dog now, in this time when the world was so uncertain, then maybe my dog would save me too. Maybe he would bolt away from the troubles that I knew were creeping in. And maybe I could save him, too.

Before I got my dog, the website I saw her on showed a picture of her with sad eyes through a chainlink fence. She had her head on her paws. She was the picture of sorrow - she was morose, as if knowing that this was not the place for her and looking almost hopefully out of the screen at me.

I fell in love with her.

Now I have my dog. She doesn't like the ocean. She doesn't like the waves as they creep up on her. She barks and runs away from them. She doesn't sit on the sand and watch the surf. She prefers to run as fast as she can along the sand, blurring into motion and disappearing into the distance until I have to scream into the wind for her to return. She does - but she doesn't stop running until we are both loaded back into the car.

My dog doesn't go for walks at the park. Around other dogs she is insecure and anxious. This is some bi-product of her past that I could never hope to understand. Yet, she understands my past perfectly and smiles at me when I frown and sets her head in my lap when I sit. Instead of bolting from the things that might hurt me, she steps in front of me and snarls. I have scratches on my legs and bruises on my knees, but she is standing there proud and holding me up with a wiggling tail and perked-up ears. Nothing phases her.

Before I had a dog was a strange time, because now I can't remember not having her there. It was just such a weird time.