I’m not a dog person.
At least, I’m not the kind of dog person who isn’t bothered by dog hair, drool and that smell in their house.
I literally hate all of that.
Plot twist: I have a 90lb dog who brings all of this (and more!) into my life.
When I was seriously considering getting a Great Dane, I knew it would be a lot of work.
I watched hours of research and training videos. I read everything I could think of to get prepared. I was going to be the perfect dog owner.
And then we brought Billie home.
One week into having her, I couldn’t get the thought out of my head: “What was I thinking?!”
(Note: I did not stop having this thought for months. MONTHS.)
Here I was grappling with serious mental and physical health issues, a full time stay at home parent with two small children and a spouse who was gone nearly all the time while grappling with the implosion of a close personal relationship.
It was not the right time for a puppy.
It was exactly what I needed.
In the past during time of stress, my go-to reaction has been to shut down, let the kids watch too much TV and do the bare minimum necessary to get by.
Thanks to therapy, I don’t feel shame about that. It’s just a fact; how I had to cope to survive. And it taught me a lot about what to better the next time I was asked to walk through a dark valley.
And this time, for whatever reason, I thought a puppy would be a good idea.
And it was a good idea!
Just not an easy one.
In case you weren’t aware, puppies are not like small children. They do not give you breaks by watching TV for an hour or two. They do not play with Lego Bricks independently for large portions of the day. Heck, they don’t even wear diapers.
No, puppies are adorable harbingers of stress, chaos and rage-inducing antics. They’re armed with needle teeth and tiny bladders. They’re actively trying to kill themselves with zero cognitive reasoning and a insatiable desire to ingest unsafe objects. They’re an apocalypse of sleeplessness and weird smells and you better hunker down and get through it or you just might not make it out alive.
This is hyperbole of course.
Kind of.
Billie forced me (with weeping and gnashing of teeth) to get into a strict routine. With her being the size she would be as an adult, she could become a dangerous liability if I didn’t train her from day one, every day. No exceptions.
I hated it. I dreaded going to sleep because I knew how much extra work I would have with her the next day. I wanted to give up.
And then, I didn’t. All of the sudden, I was actually looking forward to her routines and how active it made me every day.
She started to feel like less of a chore and more of an accomplishment I was getting prouder of by the day.
>>>
Next month, I turn 33.
I was editing that picture up there today and felt my throat get scratchy with emotion.
I’m proud of that woman.
She went through a personal hell last year and, by God’s grace, is emerging on the other side (mostly) intact with the massive accomplishment of having trained her dream dog in the thick of it.
All while showing up for her husband, her kids, weekly therapy, and running a home.
I keep wanting to shove it off as a small thing, but it isn’t. It’s God’s grace in action.
>>>
Billie has brought more work, hair and stress than I ever planned for into my life. It’s still hard every day.
I may never be the type of dog person who isn’t bothered by that but I have become a stronger person because of my dog.
And that’s no small thing.