The rescuers

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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Charlie

Charlie (my loveable, neurotic asshole) will be seven this fall, and Sam (the cuddliest, happiest dog in the world) turns five this summer. I cannot imagine my life without them, and I thank God that I have a few more years before I need to worry about the void they will leave when they’re gone.

I should point out that I hadn’t had a fur baby in 20 years when Charlie came into my life. I loved my childhood dog so much that it destroyed me when she died. I avoided getting another dog in all the years since because I didn’t want to grieve like that ever again. I realize now that my selfish decision cost me years of unconditional love. Hindsight, man.

Anyhoo, I quit drinking about a month before I got Charlie. I wrote about that here and here. Right around that same time, my now-ex-husband began a prolonged and excruciating relapse in his lifelong battle with drug addiction. I was in my second year of grad school, and my son was on the verge of flunking out of high school. He was too old to parent with any effectiveness anymore, and too young to kick out of the house (believe me, I was sorely tempted).

Emotionally raw does not begin to cover it. I needed Charlie as much as he needed me.  

At that time, I was a nothing but a vacuous shell. The tasks of daily living were overwhelming to me. I was going through the motions, doing what other smart, sober people told me to do because I had finally admitted that I couldn’t make good decisions on my own.

I felt naked. Unmasked. Exposed. Like I had finally been found out, though the only “big reveal” going on was my own self-discovery. It was the most vulnerable I've ever been in my life. It was also the most liberating, but I didn’t know what to do with that until a few months in.

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Sammi Sue

I quit drinking Nov. 20, and my ex gave me Charlie as a Christmas present. Having a living, breathing, extremely appreciative creature to focus on and care for became my life preserver. I quite literally loved him out of his corner. (He holed up in the corner of our living room and wouldn’t move or eat for the first three days.) I babied the hell out of that anxious little dog, and he totally licked up the attention (ba dum bum ching).  

When I couldn’t cope with my husband, my son, my job or my life, I could turn to Charlie. His needs were simple, and I could handle meeting them even on my worst days. He shared his love for me openly and freely, which I needed so badly. I certainly wasn’t getting it from the humans in my household at the time.

Yeaaaahhh … so, I created a monster who now needs an audience when he eats and has to be carried up the stairs, but I own that. I will carry his ass all over the house for the rest of his life if I have to. In many ways, I owe that little stinker my sanity.

Fast-forward almost two years … my ex dragged our family through his latest big, bad, ugly, cops-in-the-driveway, family-court-and-EPO relapse. He moved into a halfway house and got sober again. Or so I thought.

A couple months later, he moved home and brought me another dog, Sweet Sammi Sue. She was so teeny and fragile — nothing like the chunky alpha brute she is now. (I love Charlie, despite all his eccentricities. He and I went through a lot before his sister came into the picture. But Sam, she has my heart. I love her like crazy. Her sweetness and enthusiasm knows no bounds.)

Things were still extremely tense with both my ex and our son during Sam’s first year in our house. The worst was yet to come, as it turned out. This new puppy became a welcome distraction from my daily drama.

She was really sick when we got her, so I immediately jumped into my mama bear, er, dog role. I didn’t think I was the kind of woman who needs to feel needed, but I learned through this experience that I really am.

Shit hit the fan right before Sam’s first birthday. Turns out my ex had been using drugs all along, and lying and scheming about it. I was so naïve — I had no idea what depths he would sink to.

I asked him to move out, and his response was to lie to the courts and get me kicked out of my own home. Fortunately, that situation was rectified pretty quickly and he was removed from our lives less than two weeks later, but those were the longest 10 days of my life.

Wanna know what convinced me beyond a shadow of a doubt that my relationship with my ex-husband was over, that I was D.O.N.E. after years of second chances?

He took away my dogs, albeit briefly. I’ve got to hand it to him … way to go for my friggin’ jugular.  

Anyway, when the dust had settled and I was back home with all my babies (including my oldest, human baby, who was visibly relieved the drama was over), we all had a lot of healing to do. I got plenty of human help, sure, but I couldn’t have survived all the dark, lonely nights without my canine companions.

Anytime over the past four years when I’ve needed comfort or a good cry, Charlie and Sam have been right there. They've also been there with me to celebrate small victories, with a spastic happy dance in the kitchen.

They were with me through the fear of quitting my job and starting my own business. They have been there for me through all the ups and downs of my relationship with my now-grown son. They were there for me when my only child moved out of the house (on good terms, but still bittersweet) two years ago.

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They are always here for me when I’m sick (which is not too often, thankfully). They warm me up when I’m cold, and sleep next to me when I’m tired. As a home-based business owner and self-professed introvert (you can read more about that here), my pups allow me to enjoy my alone time without ever feeling lonely. What a gift.

My dogs make me smile and laugh a couple of times a day, every day. Sam burping after dinner. Charlie digging in the blankets to make himself a lumpy nest. The two of them chasing each other around the living room at 10 p.m. sharp every night.

If I am feeling cranky or ungrateful, or frustrated with work, all I need to do to feel better is look down — at least one dog is always at my feet, patiently waiting for a head scratch. It’s an instant mood softener. Better than a shot of tequila and a Xanax. Seriously.

Sam and Charlie are there for me even when nothing special is going on. Some of my happiest moments are Friday nights on the couch with a lap full of puppies.

I often joke that I’m a crazy dog lady, and maybe I am. I go to three stores every month to get all the organic food and treats they’ve become accustomed to, and I pay a mobile groomer to come to my house because a regular groomer is too traumatic for them. OK, for me, too. (Hey, my son is grown, so I can’t smother, I mean mother, him anymore!)

But seriously … the love, companionship and therapy-by-osmosis I get from my furry babies is no laughing matter.

It sounds silly, but I really do aspire to be the type of person Sam and Charlie already think I am. Hell, I owe them at least that much for rescuing me on a daily basis. Right?

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