Mocha

July 12th, 2021 is a day that I’ll never quite forget. The summer sun was blazing as hot as ever, and yet I sat shivering in the passenger seat of my boyfriend’s car—windows down and all. Every time I felt my Goldendoodle move in the slightest, I shivered at the excitement (but more-so nervousness) of the fact that for the very first time in my life, I was going to be fully in charge of another life.

Early summer of 2021, around the middle of May, my best friend and I volunteered for a week at the local dog shelter. We’d both agreed that there was no better start to the summer than to do a good deed, and as a very big dog person, that was the first thing she’d thought of and I rolled with it.

The dog shelter was not big by any means, but it contained a lot of dogs—about 50 in total. I remember the very first day, and the mood was extremely light. I remember the loud barks upon our first entry from our new furry friends; and then the shift in the mood to a sudden playfulness.

Each dog seemed to have a personality of their own, and we were introduced to many. We got to know the wilder ones, the overly-playful ones, the more reserved ones, etc.

Mocha caught my attention about halfway into the very first day, and it was because I noticed that she reminded me very much of someone—myself.

She didn’t mingle with others or bark or do anything at all really. She just sat quietly and stared.

She was me. Outside of my friend-group, I tend to find it extremely difficult to mingle with others. I recognized the look in her button eyes and I related with it more than I imagined I could relate with anything.

I’d found out moments later that she was one of the more reserved ones because she was found in an extremely critical condition. Almost starved, curled in a corner.

Rejection was also a thing I know well. After years of suffering with depression and anxiety, as a result of being bullied at school, I finally mustered the courage to tell my parents about my situation. Their response is one I’ll never forget.

“Think positive,” they’d said. And that was not the first nor the last time my mental or physical health had been brushed aside by them.

I knew then that I had to have Mocha. In my mind I thought I needed to save her, but I didn’t know until now that she was going to be the one doing the saving.

Even when I’d brought my Mocha home, she continued to be reserved. She didn’t do well with physical touch or loud noises, so I always needed to make sure she was aware every gentle touch that I initiated. Little by little, my girl and I were getting to know each other.

August 29th, 2021, my boyfriend ended our two and a half year relationship. I was physically and mentally unprepared. Like every relationship, ours had its issues. However they were none that we couldn’t work through. This led me to believe one thing—he just didn’t love me anymore.

It was a bitter pill to swallow. Thinking of how good we used to be, it made me physically sick that all had come to and end, and there was absolutely nothing that could be done about it.

I’ve never been one to tell my issues or share my pain with others—so I kept to myself, barely existing; barely living.

Then, something magical happened. My Mocha who whimpered at unexpected contact, curled to my side and left a tiny lick on my cheek.

That night I cried, but they weren’t all tears of pain. My heart had taken on an entirely different feeling.