 Animal rescue gets a ton of publicity these days, as well it should. I enthusiastically support any agency that saves dogs, cats and other domesticated animals from abuse suffered at the hands of sick fucks like Michael Vick. I also support harsh penalties for said fucks. But that’s not what I want to talk about today.
See, the thing about so-called animal rescue is that the humans who adopt these sweet creatures are often the ones who end up getting rescued. At least, that’s the gospel according to Amy. Dogs don’t have to be official therapy animals to provide therapy. Just sayin’.
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 I am single and living alone.
I have friends who apologetically wince when they utter that statement, like it’s a source of shame. I own it, though. In fact, I practically squeal with joy when I share it, and pity the fool in earshot. Why? Because at 42 years old, this is the first time in my entire life that I’ve been completely, no-safety-net, bereft-of-responsibility-save-numero-uno, inde-fucking-pendent. It is damn liberating. See, I went from my parents’ house to the college dorm, then back to the parental units’ basement when I dropped out. At age 21, I met the man who would become my husband. We got an apartment together with two other roommates. When baby made three, the hubs and I moved to our own place.  On Saturday afternoon, one of my dogs caught and killed a baby bird. I still can’t get the scene of carnage out of my head.
See, both my pups love to hang out on my covered porch with me. (I installed a baby gate to safely confine them.) I read and drink my coffee, while they observe the traffic, our neighbors and the constant procession of squirrels that fearlessly launch themselves from dogwood to crepe myrtle across my postage stamp front yard. Most of the time, Sam and Charlie just lay side-by-side in front of the gate, letting loose the occasional growl or muted “boof.” Pedestrians, cyclists, the white cat across the street and our long-suffering mailman get a full-on cacophony of threatening barks, but it’s just noise. If anyone actually approached the porch, my fluff balls would cower under my chair. Little wimps.  Typical New Year’s resolutions tend to be sweeping proclamations intended to eliminate behavior that is quite clearly unhealthy.
Cut out carbs. Get off your ass and join a gym. Quit smoking crack. Stop screwing your neighbor’s wife. That kind of thing. I’m pleased to say that I’ve already given up the vast majority of habits that have historically hindered my progress in the areas of physical, emotional and spiritual health. I’m far from perfect, but I am a hell of a lot closer than ever before. I might even go so far as to say I am pretty damn OK. Sure, at the dawn of 2013, I made a list of tangible, attainable goals that would shape what I wanted my life to look like for that year (related to work, working out, social activities, etc.). But my official “resolutions” centered on ways I could become a better person. Core work, so to speak.  This post probably won't have my usual verve … I had a bit of a distressing weekend – one of my sweet little dogs had to be admitted to the animal hospital because of severe stomach problems that escalated to the point of uncontrollable vomiting and bloody diarrhea.
I have written in this space before how abnormally attached I am to both my dogs, so when Sammi Sue got so sick so fast in the space of two days, I was beside myself. And of course, children and dogs only need to go to the emergency room in the middle of the night, so I was awake for almost 48 hours straight. Stressed and emotionally raw much? I’m still recovering.  I know I’m a little late with my post this week, but I’ve had a stressful couple of days.
On Sunday night, one of my dogs got very sick, to the point where I was on the phone with the emergency vet at about 1 a.m. And then at 7 a.m., I got the call that my 96-year-old great aunt, Jean Schipper, had finally passed away in her sleep in the wee hours of Monday morning after years of steady decline. I've written about how I am abnormally attached to my dogs, so you know that when one of them doesn’t feel well, it’s extremely upsetting to me. |
About Amy HiggsA former newspaper columnist, Amy takes her random, slice-of-life stories to the web. After 12 years, she's still just saying. Archives
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