I looked at Cappie this morning and thought, “I want to be you.”
Then I burst into tears, because of the absurdity of that thought. But I felt it, genuinely. I don’t know why this is so hard or why I feel like an asparagus rubberband stretched around the Twin Towers, but I’m ready to snap. I already have snapped, perhaps?
My dog doesn’t mind sitting in the same house all day. She doesn’t have a calendar with all the fun stuff crossed out, that she should really take down, because each time she sees it she feels incredibly sad.
She doesn’t seem to mind having the same six adults to hang with all day, every day. She might be more tired of this if she just had me and Matt right now. Instead, she’s got a whole host of adults to pet her, walk her, bathe her, feed her (sometimes twice, if she’s lucky).
She doesn’t notice that her collar is getting tighter, because all those adults feed her more treats than necessary. She doesn’t think about gaining weight, think about having no pool or beach or lake to go to this summer, and feel a downward spiral.
She doesn’t see rain in the forecast and see dark days of fear and loathing. She sees more cuddle time. Fewer post-dinner death marches to get 15,000 steps.
She doesn’t feel so low, and then feel even lower because she knows it’s absurd to feel so sorry for yourself when you’re employed, you’re healthy, your friends and family are healthy, and all that.
She just sits on the couch and gets excited to see whichever adult comes into the room. Regardless of whether they’re crumb-leavers or laundry doers or grocery shoppers or anything, she’s excited to see all of us. She wags her tail, cuddles up, and for a blissful 3 or 30 seconds the world seems normal.
She doesn’t try to pursue normalcy of any other kind. And she seems better for it.
Recovering journalist who discovered a life outside of news leaves you time for things like getting angry, cooking and traveling. Plus, hopefully, writing. I’m a wife, dog mom and Washingtonian.