How to Give Up
I want to stop trying, but dread having to explain it to everyone else.
A few nights ago, my friend Michael slept over because the next day we were driving to to the desert to celebrate my 51st birthday with a random group of friends. He slept in my room, I slept in the den. I thought it was a perfect arrangement, but my dog (let’s call him Fish) had a different opinion.
Fish hates men. I knew this. But it wasn’t until an actual human man slept over that I understood just how much Fish hates men. He hates them a lot.
I’ve had Fish for about nine months. I picked him up at the windy and cold Lancaster animal shelter eleven days after my beloved shepherd died, which was probably a bad decision. I should have waited to get a new dog; I should have let myself grieve before I rushed off to scoop up Fish, because we aren’t exactly a match made in heaven. To put it generously, Fish is an emotional wreck. And while I have an infinite amount of love for any animal who shows up in my life, I am also a wreck. Two wrecks navigating the world together is a fun movie concept, but not such a great reality. I’m just not the best person to help Fish, whose mind goes kaboom every time someone walks by the house.
But while we are star-crossed, it also feels like we had no choice but to end up together. Days after…
