I recently had a small miracle affect my life in huge way. In an effort to simplify my life, I had unintentionally eliminated any purpose for living. I had no reason to get up in the morning, so I often didn’t. I could sleep 18 hours a day and eat the other 6 hours. When I went for my annual physical at the VA, I discussed this with my doctor. I said that maybe I needed to see a mental health provider. He said that unless I had post traumatic stress syndrome, that the mental health clinic would not see me. Soldiers returning from Iraq have overwhelmed them. He prescribed some anti-depressants and sent me on my way.
In the meantime, a friend of mine had encouraged me to get a dog. I am a dog lover, but did not think I could handle the responsibility of caring for one, when I could hardly care for myself. Anyway, I am a big dog guy and live in a condo. The rules of my condo limit me to a dog of 25 pounds. I am not fond of little, yippy, ankle biters like Chihuahuas and such and cannot imagine walking down the road with a shitsu on a leash. That is almost as bad as having a cat. Guys with cats scare me. But women with lots of cats terrify me even more. I know there are cat lovers reading this that’s asses have just clenched a bit, but I have valid reasons for my opinion of cats. The first is that I am horribly allergic to cats. If I walk in a house containing a cat I will know within a minute. The second and more profound reason is that I once had a cat spray my gym bag. If you have ever had a cat baptize an article of clothing, you know what I am talking about. There are no detergent commercials that claim to remove that odor.
So I decided to visit the local Humane Society, which is one of the most heartbreaking places on earth. There were lots of great dogs, but they were all large dogs, certainly over 25 pounds. I guess it is just like with orphaned children, the larger ones are hard to place. If I had room, I would adopt the lot of them. The dogs, not the children. I came home and looked on Craig’s list. Again, I could find no suitable dogs. So I posted a short ad promising a good home to a small dog. I received several responses, but the one that caught my eye was one from Steph for a five-year-old beagle, named Skooter. Though small, a beagle is definitely a man’s dog. We corresponded via email a few times (Steph and I, not Skooter) and made an appointment for me to come and meet Skooter. I took him for a test ride and a walk and we bonded immediately. I took him home that night and he has been by my side ever since.
He has the most amazing internal clock. Regardless of what time we retire for the night, each morning at 7 AM, I hear the patter of his toenails on my hardwood floor and see his tail coming around the bed. Then his adorable face and sad eyes appear on the side of my bed.. He is ready to eat and go for a walk. In that order. I now have a reason to get up in the morning. This might not qualify as a miracle in the precise definition of the word, but meeting Skooter was a miracle for me.
I have a long way to go to get back to mental well-being, but having a loving companion is a good start. It is hard to be depressed with Skooter sharing my life.
He also enjoys sharing my new 800 count Egyptian cotton sheets while I am on the computer.
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