For Sid, with the bum leg, big ears, nervous tic, and biggest heart in the known universe

I wanted to be loved. So what did I do? I got a dog...

If your though process is anything like my mother's you might ask "Why a dog? What happened to the horse and those two god-awful cats?"

First and foremost, Bud is a horse. Horses aren't pets: they're the vehicles we equestrians use to go way too fast, jump over things that are way too big, and fall off of to get the sympathy vote. Or, they're best friends.

Depends how you want to look at it. 

While I tell anyone who will listen that I just wish everybody would love me the way my horse does, it's hard to get that love when you need it most if your horse is tucked away in his warm, cozy stall in the barn that sits undisturbed at the end of a dark, quiet country road in North Omaha, and you're 1,200 miles away on the island of Manhattan, surrounded by 1,634,795 of your closest friends, 6,002 of which are all wedged onto the same rush-hour 4 train, but none of them feel the need to ask you how your day has been, or if you need a tissue. 

Horses also can't come in the living room and keep you company at night while you stare at a blank page, pretending to have profound thoughts, while reruns of shows that nobody ever watches drone on in the background to keep the boogeymen away. 

And while cats do fit in a living room, and even more conveniently in a lap, they don't want to be in the same living room at the same time as you, and they most certainly don't want to be in your lap. Or, at least Dinah doesn't. 

My old gray cat that won't die hates anything with a soul. I think that's why I love her so much. That's also why I don't tell her any of my most weighty secrets-- that would be like telling her where I sleep, handing her an axe, and tattooing "cut on the dotted line" across my jugular. 

Junior, on the other hand, wants to curl up in my lap and hear those secrets, but at two-years old, he's much more inclined in the not-sitting-still-and-contented-but-retriving-small-shiny-objects-from-underneath-the-furniture-and-trying-for-fifteen-minutes-to-eat-them-instead department. 

That's why I got a dog. I realized that tonight as I paced across my room, screaming something about wanting to put on my fleecey, warm "fat pants," and never take them off, and how my neurotic tendencies might actually be unhealthy, and how perhaps I am now a grown-up and should get off my fleecey fat ass and start acting like one instead of chalking up success, happiness, and fairytale endings to passive things like luck and predestined divine intervention. 

The whole time, Sid paced back and forth with me, tail wagging like a metronome, tennis ball in mouth, all as if this furious, disheveled rant were some big, exciting game in which he felt honored to be included.

That's why I got a dog. Because dogs listen.

Sure, I've talked a mile a minute at Junior, when it's dark and several hours passed my bedtime and predetermined hours of sane operation...but it's not the same as talking to Sid. While cats are there, they aren't present...they're usually licking their butt or trying to catch the beam of light reflecting off a discarded candy wrapper that's slipped beneath the couch. Dogs at least lay on your feet, follow at your heels, or curl up beside you in bed, and generally make pretty genuine eye contact. They stay in the moment with you, at least pretending to pay attention. 

I think what really helps when talking to Sid is just verbalizing what's weighing in on my mind. The act of speaking, acknowledging my problems/ideas/excitement out loud, makes them all the more real and easier to come to grips with. Having someone besides me to hear it elevates the situation from real to tangible. 

It ends the quarantine and the isolation.

What makes dogs so great is they hear everything you want, need, fear, regret, and resent but they don't judge you. Your friends will steer you in what they feel is the safest, less conflict-laden direction, but what friends don't understand is that sometimes you just have to make the mistake, even if you know it's a mistake- I mean, if you think something's a mistake but you don't act on it, think of all the years you'll spend thinking something might've been a mistake, but never knowing for sure...that mistake might've been the best decision you've ever made. Or...a mistake. But, there's only one way to find out.

Sometimes you just need to listen to your dog- he won't judge you or try to make reason of what you're feeling and why and how to "fix" it. He'll let you talk it out. He'll let you feel how you feel. He'll let you make the mistake.

And, if it turns out that the mistake was indeed a mistake, he won't care. He'll listen to you then, without so much as an "I-told-you-so." He'll still be happy to pace back and forth across the room with you, knowing that he's helping you mend. And most importantly, he'll always, always love you enough to bring the tennis ball back, drop it at your feet, and climb into bed with you and just sit.