Saying “So Long” to a Dream
Almost a year to the day after I had to return my puppy Ella, I found myself wandering the dog toy aisle in TJ Maxx again. But this time, instead of for myself, I was buying a toy for my friend Louie (name changed for privacy). He - after years of wanting one - had sent me a photo of a gorgeous dog named Star (name also changed) who was going to be moving in with him imminently.
As I walked down the row of toys, the same one I excitedly traversed a year ago, I started to feel immensely jealous. Why could Louie have a dog, and I couldn't? The rational excuse of him getting an older dog who was already trained hardly made me feel any better. He was getting a dog to love, and even though I could pet her and hug her when he let me, she wouldn't be my dog.
I bought Star a toy shaped like a Gatorade bottle. I couldn't bring myself to buy one of the fancy Halloween toys I bought for Ella and then donated when she was gone and I couldn't look at them any longer. I didn't think I could bear to see a new dog playing with the toys I'd bought for her, so I got something entirely new, then took a huge walk to try to clear my head, and waited for when Louie said I could come over.
Three days after Louie brought Star home, he invited me over to meet her. He sounded a little off on the phone, and I even asked him if he was mad at me, to which he said he wasn't. New toy in hand, I descended in the elevator, putting on a happy face. I needed to be happy for Louie - and of course, I wanted Star to like me.
Louie opened the door and, as I tend to do when I know there are cute dogs around, I leaned around him to see the dog. I'd seen pictures of her before, but now I could see her a lot more clearly. She was a mostly brown dog, medium sized, with black patches on her back. She had been bred a couple of times; from what Louie had told me, she had a tough life. Her feet looked like they had white mittens and her ears were too big for her head. All this to say, she was adorable, and I quickly held out a hand for her to sniff and showed her the toy.
It took me a minute to notice that Louie had retreated to an armchair and was staring off into space, his breathing fast, his eyes red and teary and lost.
I knew, even as Star walked over and started sniffing my hand, even as she leaned her face into my mask and started sniffing that too, that Louie was in a very familiar place.
He told me he called me first, not because we were neighbors, but because I was someone who had gone through the same thing - moved into a dog-friendly building, sought the perfect pooch for what felt like forever, got her home - and then had a mental breakdown.
I slid down onto the floor, coaxing Star to stay next to me and explore her new toy while Louie talked. He told me everything - how he was so thrilled to pick her up, how he researched everything and felt so prepared, how his anxiety made him question every tiny little thing and wouldn't let him eat or sleep or think properly.
He told me that Star was the perfect dog. He'd learned from me, he said - he didn't get a puppy and he specifically looked for a dog who would be calm. He told me that Star was 3 years old, house trained, knew her commands, and acted extremely calm. He gave me some of her treats and showed off how she could sit and stay. He told me the problem was all coming from him, not her, and no matter what he tried to convince himself to do, he was 98% to the decision to return her to her foster home.
He asked me about Ella, and I told him everything. How ashamed I was that I could be brought so low by a 3 pound creature who loved me so much. How I could see the light leave my eyes in photographs in only nine days. How I'd worked so hard for so many years to be normal and how much it hurt me that there was something I thought I could do but couldn't, no matter how much I wanted to. That, no matter how much I ran wanted to ignore it, OCD is still a part of my life, even after having fought it for a full quarter century.
I wouldn't wish this on anyone, but I have to say, properly talking about Ella and my experience with her was helpful. After a year of shoving everything under the metaphorical rug, I was finally exposing my shame to the light of day, and it was helping someone.
Star sat next to me as I talked with Louie. Her fur felt so soft. She kept looking up at me with huge brown eyes, just like my family's dog who I miss so much when I'm away from home. She was a lot like him - content to chill on the couch, only getting up to stretch, leaning in when I stroked her chin.
And I couldn't help it - as soon as Louie said he was thinking of returning her, I pictured her in my home instead. She had none of the behaviors that stressed me about Ella, and deep in my heart, I'd been considering trying to find an older, calmer dog and giving it a try. I wasn't looking yet, didn't know if I was ready, but she just kept looking up at me with those eyes.
I stayed with Louie for a long time, listening as he cried to me that he was a coward who could only make it for three days, who couldn't be ready even though it was all he wanted. And eventually, he told me about the foster home she'd been staying in, and asked if he should give them my name.
It was so easy to picture: coming home to a beautiful, happy dog who was content to be alone, crate trained, and had nothing at all for me to worry about. I knew, from my childhood with my family dog, that I obsess a lot about whether the dog needs to go outside; she wouldn't have that problem. She wouldn't bark or bite or do anything wrong. And she just kept looking up at me with those big brown eyes.
I was so unbelievably tempted. I had, late at night, been wondering what it would be like to try again, this time with the help of my therapist. I would have resources I didn't have last time, and I had dropped the emotional desperation I felt during the pandemic because I've recently had my third Pfizer shot.
There was only one problem: even with all of those good things, I'm still me.
I had to be honest with Louie, and I told him: "I wish I could. There's a good chance it would work out well. She has none of the things that stressed me out before. But I can't guarantee my OCD won't come up with anything new."
He nodded, said he wouldn't mention me to the foster home, and I felt my heart break all over again as I pulled Star into a tight hug. She put her chin on my shoulder and just stayed there. Listened as Louie and I cried together and prayed that one day we could both be stronger.
I am writing this post two days later. I just got off the phone with Louie, who sounds like his old self, a completely different person than the one I saw two days ago. He told me that Star has a new home thanks to the foster family, with a yard and another dog and kids to play with. She's going to be happy there, and healthy, and I will be too, on my own. But that doesn't make it any easier.
Nana always tells me, when I cling to her at the end of a trip home, that I shouldn't say "goodbye." I should say "so long," because it's not forever. It's a shorter parting in the longer scheme of life.
This experience has convinced me, more than any of my friends or family with well intentioned opinions, that I have to say "so long" to my dream of owning a dog. My best bet is probably to listen to my mom, who recommended I wait until I'm married and no longer living alone.
It feels closer to "goodbye" than "so long," because I'm nowhere near being in a relationship close enough to the point where I would move in with anyone. I need a lot more therapy to get to that point, and it's impossible to put a timeline on emotional healing. It feels equally impossible to imagine myself with a dog one day, one who I can handle even with my OCD.
It hurts even harder knowing that my family's dog, the one who helped me get over my childhood fear of dogs, is declining in health. It hurts that I have trouble being around him sometimes because many of his health problems are things that directly trigger my OCD. It hurts that, on some visit home likely in the not-super-distant future, I will say "so long" and it will actually be "goodbye."
I don't have a pretty way to wrap this up in a bow and say that the story is over. It's not, and it won't be until the day I am strong enough either on my own or with someone else's help. And until then, I can only imagine that beautiful moment when I will have a pair of dog eyes looking at me and knowing that my home can be a real home.
Ellie, a writer in the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.