Yesterday, I let my dog go.
She was gentle and kind and comforting and warm and playful. She was patient and tactile and snuggled up close to me at night when I slept. And she is the only friend I had that gave me truly unconditional love.
But I haven’t been fair to her. My depression has been deep and my mood swings unpredictable. I would never hit her, but I am intolerant, and I could tell that sometimes she was nervous of what I might do. I do not have the energy to take her for walks and had to rely on my neighbour to take her with him when he took his own dogs out. My life has become such an incredible excuse for a car crash that I felt her life would be better off elsewhere. And, of course, there’s the probability that I will be moving home soon, probably to a place that doesn’t have room for dogs.
I did it the right way. I went through a person who runs a rehoming website for cats and dogs. The animals don’t have to spend any time in cages. My dog stayed with me until a suitable new owner had been assessed. Her new owner had travelled a long way to meet her, and I’m told he had tears in his eyes because she reminded him so much of his last dog who died.
She’ll have a good life. Her new owner is a retired man who lives in the glorious English countryside and often walks across the Peak District. So she’ll be OK.
But what of me?
Until yesterday, I only had two “protective factors” that had been keeping me from falling / leaping over the edge.
One of those was my dog.
© Alice through the Macro Lens