Dogs don’t care why you’re crying

I’m having a depressed day. It took an hour to pry myself out of bed, seeing little reason to do so. But for the dogs, I might never get up, and now I’m spending the day with these beautiful creatures whose only concerns are eating, sleeping, playing and peeing. My husband’s condition is worse every day. I try to wall off my emotions, but it doesn’t always work. Earlier I was sitting at my desk, crying. Human children would want to know why I was crying and demand that I fix them breakfast, but Annie just let me hold her. She and Chico both licked my face, and now they welcome me to their pack, no questions asked, no “what’s the matter”, no “snap out of it”, no “I need . . .” You’re sad; I’m here. That’s it. You rarely get that from a child. Plus you have to suck it up so you don’t worry them.

Get rid of the dogs? I can’t. A lot of trouble? Oh yes. Expense? Wow. But they’re what I’ve got now, and I’m glad to be in their pack. I took them from their mother; they’re my responsibility. They’re not like an old computer. They’re living beings, looking at me with those big brown eyes, plopping themselves into my lap, welcoming me to their yard. As long as we all eat, sleep, potty and stay together, everything’s cool.

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