Thursday, January 17, 2013


I bought a dog yesterday. She's beautiful. She's energetic and incredibly strong.
Her name is Roxy. She loves to go for walks and and prance around my apartment. She can't get enough of looking out the window and if she had her way, she would spend the entire day on the porch sniffing through the chest-sized crack. I'm too scared to let her, fearing she'll see a cat or a squirrel and tumble down three flights. I have every intention of buying some lattice to nail up and set my fears to rest. I had a moment today, after taking her for a very long walk, when she tried to run out of the door and escape. It was an awful feeling. I had only owned her for about twenty four hours so I don't think it was anything personal but I felt abandoned and rejected and terrified. I caught her. And I was very nervous all of the sudden that I couldn't do this. I have only ever been responsible for myself and suddenly I was aware of a gripping fear and that tiny and minuscule, but nagging and present feeling of resentment. I can't just swing the door wide, leave the apartment early in the morning and not return until late at night, or sleep in much too late without worrying about my carpets. But I can watch her stretch out after a long nap on the couch. I can see how excited she gets when I walk out from my bedroom to greet her in the morning. And someday, she'll sit still as I swing the door wide. Or maybe I'll have a house with a yard and a fence that she can run out and play.

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