The Night "Love" Came Into My Life.

I was not looking for her. I left home at 16, a story for another time, but for almost two decades, my life had been about one person and only one person, me. I had just turned 33 and was going through an identity crisis. I was starting over in every way conceivably possible, including career, relationship, locale, friendships, spirituality, and more.

The night that we met was straight out of an off-Broadway ensemble rom-com. It was dark and stormy, and everything felt heavier, yet intriguing as if somehow someway it could be a night where your life just might be changed forever. Like those movies that we’ve all seen, the ones our cynical sides make fun of, yet secretly long for, it was just like one of those nights. I had no idea that the thing to change my life would be her.

I came home, depleted and defeated from work as usual, too tired to do anything other than just collapse in front of my TV with takeout and attempt to numb the pain I was feeling from living a life that I 100 percent hated. The building was bustling with the usual suspects of neighbors, so I made my way up the 9 flights of stairs with my 20 pounds of groceries.

The sounds of people cooking, couples laughing, couples yelling, dishes clanking, and kids exuding their last bits of energy before bedtime were the orchestra of apartment life in the summer. I couldn’t wait to get to my door, turn the lock, and drown out all the noise behind me.

On my floor, I was greeted by my oldest neighbor, Zelma, a very eccentric, Kundalini and Reiki Master, who had mentioned several weeks back that she was moving to Florida. It was more ideal weather for a woman of her age, she claimed. Tonight, she was in even rarer form, even happier and more woo-wooer than usual.

She had let me put food in her fridge when mine had gone out recently, so I told her I’d owe her in return for the favor. Tonight, she was cashing in apparently. There was a “can’t miss” event that she had to go out of town for, and she needed me to watch one of her rescues. She’d just rescued a mother pug and her babies from overseas and had the runt of the litter left, whom she’d nursed back to life. It was doing great now, and she needed me to look after it. The person she had lined up with canceled last minute, so I agreed.

Zelma went over the details of what she needed. She gave me all the specs on meds, foods, emergency contacts, etc. It was like being asked to care for a child. There was so much information and so much to do and know. Then, just like, Zelma was heading for the airport and leaving the two of us together alone. Before Zelma left, I asked what the pug’s name was, and Zelma said the pug baby hadn’t given it to her yet, but she was sure she would soon. With that, she gave us both a farewell peck on the head, and she was gone into the night air.

So, my weekend of binge-watching, wine of the month club consumption, and online shopping had just been modified to include caretaking.

Zelma had the pug in this extravagantly padded contraption that looked like someone had hulled out an ottoman and refinished it with the inside of a genie’s lamp. The furball just kept going from side to side, putting her paws up to look over the edge, then back down to repeat the cycle. She had the biggest eyes I’d ever seen on a pet, and she just spent the first few hours sitting there looking at me as if she wanted to tell me something, but patiently waiting for me to figure it out. She was quiet in her curiosity.

She was so tiny that she looked like one of my balled-up socks. I could hold her in the palm of my hand, although I was TERRIFIED to pick her up, afraid I would drop her or that she would get hurt somehow. I had never in my life seen a puppy that small. So, I sat on my padded couch, and she sat in her padded box, and we just awkwardly stared at one another.

As the night went on, I gave the little one her potty breaks as Zelma had instructed, my anxiety was through the roof just trying to contain her to the pee area. I was afraid there might be something on the floor she could get into or that she would make a run for it and get under the furniture. Irrational anxiety was my forte.

She stayed on her pad, did her business, and then back to her genie lamp she went. This cycle repeated until the wee small hours. Pups have to pee a lot! I didn’t even open a bottle of wine that night. I was too afraid I wouldn’t have my wits about me should something go down.

Occasionally, she would pop her paws over the box and look out with her big eyes. I could feel she wanted to get out. I’m sure Zelma didn’t keep her confined to that box all day, so I made a pallet on the floor to let her out for a bit since I was too afraid to have her on a high platform like the couch. She nestled up close to me and chewed on my finger and then, fell quickly asleep. I continued to binge on “Drop Dead Diva”.

I spent that first night asleep on the floor with my hand in the box on her little body. I was too afraid I would roll over on her in the middle of the night, but I felt too horrible about keeping her in the box, alone. So, I slept as close as I could to her.

For the next two days, I pretty much remained a nervous wreck. I checked on her breathing probably 100 times. When she ate, I mashed up her food to remove any choking hazards. I triple-checked the measurements of her medications because there was this little ball of life in my living room that I was suddenly responsible for. By day three, we had gotten more comfortable with one another. Her new favorite napping spot was under my neck. She would climb my chest, circle around, let out a heavy sigh, then she would nod off to sleep, while I binged on HGTV. I didn’t know exactly what was happening, but I knew something was.

That weekend, I didn’t drink at all. My apartment saw more light than it had seen in years. Just being scared she would eat some of the clutter, I cleaned up everything in my house. I opened the windows and let the little one get some sunlight. I played music and watched significantly less streaming. In just three days, my home life had completely changed.

I’d never wanted children, not even for one minute. I had to raise myself, and the thought of having to raise another person just exhausted and terrified me, but this little fur ball was doing something to me, and I wasn’t prepared.

On the day of Zelma’s return, I felt nauseous. I wanted to attribute it to the take-out, but looking back, it was much more. I had bonded with that little pug, and she had opened part of my heart I thought was long dead and gone. I didn’t know how to process it. I don’t even think at the time that I knew that was what was happening.

Zelma came back like clockwork and was super thankful to find the little one in perfect condition and looking healthy and happy. She brought me a gift from her travels, and then, just like that, she and the pug were gone.

I remember feeling heavy again as I closed all my blinds and my apartment darkened. I went back to the life I had known.

The next morning, I awoke to a knock on my door. It was Zelma. She said the pug gave her a name, and she wanted to be called “Love”. Zelma also said that Love wanted to know if she could stay with me forever, so Zelma said she told Love the pug that she’d ask.

I had zero reasons to desire or even want a fur baby of my own, but when those words came out of her mouth, I jumped at the chance to say… “Yes!!” Zelma was moving in a few months and had been looking for a home for the little one. She said that she would love to know that “Love” was going to a good home. So, the next few weeks, we spent acclimating Love into the new flow of things, and my life was forever changed, unmeasurably for the better.

Before her arrival, I never went for walks. Now, we walk daily. I cleaned very rarely, and now I clean pretty much daily, as a large percentage of vet visits are due to hazards from the home. I also quit my horrible job and began doing work I enjoyed from home, to properly care for Love. I had no intention of leaving her cooped up for hours on end, so that was the first change I had to make. I still enjoy the occasional glass of wine, but no longer am I a member of the wine of the month club. Instead, Love has several memberships to toys, treats, and other “box” clubs of the month. We both have a large group of friends from other fur-parents in the neighborhood. We host and attend playdates with others often. So, in short, my life is nothing like it was before her arrival. It’s 100 times better. All the things that I never found myself wanting, I suddenly wanted for her. I didn’t want her to just be sitting on the couch all day. I didn’t want her to just know a handful of people or to just experience the same life day in and day out. I wanted her to see adventure and have furry friends, be social, and have the best life that she could have.

Some may say she’s just a pup, but to me, she will always be so much more. I may have given her a home, but she quite possibly gave me a life. To some people, this will just be about a person meeting a dog, but to me, it will always be the story of the night Love came into my life.