I love dogs. I mean, I really love dogs. I think I can speak for a lot of people when I say that there is no love so unconditional as that of a dog. I’m always in a winner, in their eyes. True love. No holds barred.
My own little poodle passed away last year. He’s the little, white, fluffy one in the pictures. I miss him more than words can say; he was my little buddy, he was the one who ran to the door expecting it to be me when he heard a car. He was the one who hopped up onto my bed every night and got under the covers so he could curl up down near my feet. He was the one jumped in my lap so I could hold him when I was sad. True love.
Robert made the point, in therapy last night, that having a dog helps pull people out of their ruts, as evidenced by one of his clients who suffered from constant insecurities and depression. When she adopted a dog it helped her immensely, simply by pulling her focus off herself and onto another organism that needed her attention and care. And in return, she was given unconditional love, not found in any of her human relationships. I think I could safely say that having a dog would help keep me out of my insomnia or PTSD induced depressive slumps or my self-harm episodes.
But B could not be more resistant to getting a dog, mostly because we don’t own the house we live in and so having a dog might propose more of a threat to our already tenuous living arrangements. And also because he doesn’t want the financial responsibility. So I’m left to pine away, staring at poodle-porn on my computer, wishing and hoping for the day when we can have whole litter of lovers who follow me around and chew on B’s shoes.
