I’ve always wanted a dog. Ever since I knew what a dog was, I wanted one. I was obsessed with them, dog everything. I watched movies where they talked, I bought tons of stuffed animal dogs and made them have puppies, I even used to have my brother tie a shoelace around my neck and drag me around as his dog. I had to have one. My parents unfortunately were against them, we had cats. They liked cats. I have nothing against them—I love my cats more than the world—but I just really wanted a dog.
So when the circumstances in my life led my mother to remarry, and I found out her fiancé loved dogs, I saw opportunity glistening. We moved in together all of us, into a new town. New house, new life, why not add a pair of new feet? But as time passed, and again more circumstances happened, I let the dog idea fall. How could we handle one? Our lives were hectic chaos hanging by strings; it wouldn’t be fair to let a dog into this.
As I got home from babysitting one night though, I had a surprise waiting. My life was—as all us teenagers seem to think—in the pits. I was still reeling from my first taste of heartbreak, and wasn’t emotionally present whatsoever. So when I walked through that door feasting my eyes on the small black-and-white mop of hair scurrying its way across my floor, I flipped. I went off about the exposed cords, our shoes on the floor, the dedication it would take, whatever bull I could find to hide how I really felt.
I’m a perfectionist and since I spent literally my whole life waiting to be granted a dog, after I watched friend after friend be given one, I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted MY dog. A dog that would curl up in my bed at night, that looked just like I wanted it to, that I could name and raise, take off to college with me. I wanted it to be perfect. Not this, this tiny poor excuse of a dog. Upon first appraisal, I found her to be quite ugly. She had bulgy little eyes, a lip that stuck out too far, and hair that covered her whole face. Mom referred to her as a gremlin, and I could see it fitting.
I didn’t want her, or anything to do with her. Sash was her name, a six-month-old Shih Tzu puppy my Step-Dad found on Craigslist. She wasn’t what I imagined, so I wanted nothing to do with her, I made it clear. It wasn’t MY dog. I wouldn’t take her out, I didn’t want to touch her, and she wasn’t mine. In retrospect, I sound like quite the brat. But how was I expected to budge on this? After years of patiently waiting for my perfect dog to come, I felt duped.
A few days after we first got her, Mom came down to talk to me in the basement. She began just merely talking, but all the sudden it was waterworks. I can count on my hand the amount of times I’ve seen my mother cry, so this threw me off. “I’m so sorry, Jess,” She cried into her hands. “After all the disappointments you’ve been through lately I wanted something to make you happy again, but I just added one more.”
My heart hurt. I felt iron guilt against my throat, choking back my own tears. How could I be so heartless? Lover of all animals, kindred spirit me rejecting a puppy. It was unheard of. I decided to give Sash another chance. I wasn’t sure where to start, but she deserved something. My mother again looked at me, more tears in her eyes, “Honey, if you could’ve seen her. She needed rescued; she was so desperate for someone to save her.”
I came home the next day to see her, fresh haircut and bath. She looked cuter I had to admit. I was the only one home at the time. I sat out on the step and she hopped around me, a fiery ball of fluff. “I can’t love you,” I whispered to her, “the last thing I loved broke my heart.” But she looked at me with these eyes—one so dark it was almost black and one ice blue—that made me want to love her. I wasn’t sure I remembered how to love. I’d just gotten out of a two-year relationship and my heart had been shattered for the first time in my life. I was scared to love anything, even this dog. I was wary of getting hurt again. But as I petted her head, watching her eyes roll back with every stroke, I felt the need to give her a chance.
Since then I’ve come to love her. Sash, my little misfit dog, who sat her head in my lap on one of my darker moments on a car ride home and licked my fingers as I cried alone in my room. This dog that sprints around—without the slightest intention to ever hurt one thing—that drops her body flat to the ground at the presence of my big, scary cats and whines in her cage at night. This dog that is afraid of the garage steps and who lives for belly-rubs. She wears bows, and has a paper-thin tongue, and she’s still kind of ugly. But she’s mine. She’s not perfect, but she’s mine.
I let myself love her, and I think I’ll let myself love other things again too. As I watch her romp around—her tail wagging and ears perked—I’m reminded of what my mother said. She needed rescued, but so did I. I’ve long believed life doesn’t give you what you want; it gives you what you need. I needed this little dog. Because dogs love us even when we’re incapable of reciprocating, they love us beyond all our faults, even when we’re not perfect. And in the end, it’s never us that rescue them; it’s them that rescue us. We’re the ones that really need them. So thank you—stupid little dog I never wanted—for saving me.