That's My Dog

Nate: It just doesn't stop, does it?

Ruth: It gets better... but it never goes away, no.

- Six Feet Under

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Here's a funny story for you.

My apartment landlord, after a year of my non-barking collie mix living with me, suddenly decided he didn't want pets in the building anymore. I didn't feel like going to court over a lease dispute and so agreed to move out in three months. My mother's comment, when I started moaning about having to move in the middle of March, said to me "My grand-puppy needs a yard. Go buy a house." So. I bought a fenced in yard that came with a nice little house. That was four months after my twenty-fourth birthday.

Two years later I had a friend who had to quickly move from her home into an apartment that didn't allow dogs. She boarded her Scottish terrier with me. It was cute. It was old. And it peed on my floors a lot due to some bladder aliment. But it never barked. And it always peed on the kitchen floor, for which I was eternally grateful in a house full of wood floors.

One lovely spring, my mother came to stay with me for a week. And, being not long out of college, along with already being burdened with a house mortgage, we had to share the only bed I owned. Since the weather was nice, (and I was cheap) we slept with the windows open. We slept with the windows open right up until about five in the morning. When a dog started barking.

Mother: What's wrong with that dog?

Me: I dunno, Mom. It's not my dog.

Mother: Is that dog hungry?

Me: I haven't a clue, Mother. It's not my dog.

Mother: Well, should I go let that dog out?

Me: Mother, that's not my dog! I don't bathe it, I don't feed it, I don't take it for walks. THAT'S NOT MY DOG!

The barking was coming from three yards over but between both of us being half asleep and the acoustics of the neighborhood, my mother assumed it was my furry little guest. As far as I was concerned, the dogs under my roof were mine, and were my responsibility. All the other dogs were, well, not my dog - nor were they my responsibility.

All this to say there are many things that are not my dog:
How uncomfortable people feel when I cry in public. Not my dog.
How disturbing it is to people the frequency with which I still think about my husband. Not my dog.
Making those around me feel comfortable with the idea that my life currently has no real direction. Not my dog.

Getting on with my life, knowing this grief may never fully leave my soul and coming to terms with that idea, working on getting better. That's my dog. That's my responsibility.