When I first met my dog, she was only one month old. Just a tiny, innocent puppy, sitting in a cage, all happy-go-lucky, with a smile on her face, bright curious eyes, and a tongue wagging as much as her tail. She shouldn’t have wandered away from her mom and siblings, but her curiosity and love of adventure landed her in the dog pound.
I wandered in, unexpectedly also, with my best friend and her kids. She sometimes visited the pound with dog treats for the kids to feed them, like a trip to the zoo. My life—my career and my 10 years of living in Washington D.C. had ended on 9/11/01, the day the Twin Towers were attacked in New York City, and my depression had consumed me to the point of feeling suicidal.
I didn’t plan on adopting this puppy. She just grabbed hold of my heart, and wouldn’t let go. The kids begged me to put my name on a waiting list to claim her in 10 days if no one else did. I relented, and visited the dog several times during that 10 day waiting period, just to get to know her. Somebody was going to claim her, I was convinced, because she was just so cute and so lovable. But, to my surprise, nobody did. I was so afraid of having a dog. I wanted to jump off the nearest bridge, not take care of a dog that I didn’t have any money to support. But I couldn’t just let her die in that dog pound. I decided I would take her to my best friend’s kids and give her to them.
I lost my temp job the day after I paid $75 to take the puppy home with me. I had also just bought food dishes, toys, a flea collar, food, and a kiddie pool for her to swim in. I was flat broke and unemployed again. How would I feel this new mouth in my house, much less myself? I felt I had just ruined this poor animal’s life, and should have just left her there for somebody else to love. My best friend told me she couldn’t have another dog for her kids, and that I should just keep her and ride it out for awhile. So that’s what I did.
Within 24 hours of being with her, worrying about her, and wondering what my life would become, the adoration and love that she gave to me, truly saved me from myself. She cheered me up. She made me laugh. She gave me hope. I was going to name her “Foxy,” but her attitude came out as we played, and so she became “Sassy” instead. I now had somebody ELSE to take care of, to focus on, and to do right by. I had to stick around to do that. I couldn’t give her up. She’s been with me now for 9 years, and she’s the best dog I’ve ever had. She’s my baby, and she’s stuck by me through very bad times, and now, we have a much happier life. I would never trade her for anything in this world.