Why I was never truly alone:
Let me tell you a story about a very important dog.
When I was seven, my dad decided to get a miniature pinscher. He was meant to be the family dog but I fell in love and he became my responsibility. His name is Mac. I helped house train him, I taught him to walk on a leash, and I took him everywhere I went, even when my parents divorced and we went back and forth weekly.
When we (my siblings and I) were taken from home and became wards of the state due to the abuse, he stayed with my mom, who eventually gave him to my grandma who adopted us when both parents went to prison. Mac slept with me every night after that, curled up next to my chest. Only with him there did I feel safe.
This is me and him shortly before we were adopted. (I am 12 in this picture so excuse the slight gawkiness)
He was there for me through everything: The abuse, my parents going to prison, some of the worst instances of my depression and cPTSD, the loss of my uncle, both instances of my grandpa’s cancer flairs, everything. He’s 13 now, he can’t see much or hear well and has diabetes, but he still follows me around, guards my door when there’s something he doesn’t like (like when the gardeners come by), sits on my book or computer to get my attention so he gets pet, and sleeps with me when I’m home.
I know he won’t live forever, and I miss him when I’m away at university, but he’s doing well still. My brother has taken over as his main owner and he still plays with his toys and goes for walks, even if he runs into things sometimes. I love him, and he deserves so much. I don’t deserve him but I am so grateful that he is a part of my life. I never was truly alone.
