Cozy Morning

I hear a huge yawn, then a cry in my ear: it is time for me to get up. Her whining grows louder the moment my eyelids open. She stamps her feet, and I bend down to get her into bed. My gaze stops on the hands of the alarm clock: almost eight a.m., I still have time. As she has done every morning for the past five years, she rolls around in the blankets around me, searching for my hand. Happy simply to exist. Happy to finally have my affection. Lying down, she fixes her big, tired eyes on my dark-circled, worn down face, which I interpret as love. The morning sun streams in through the bedroom window and reflects off the wall, making it seem for a moment that a rainbow's pot of gold lies behind her. She turns on her side, paws in the air, and looks at me inquisitively, clearly asking for more petting.

Cuddles, always more cuddles.

I met her after an earthquake. One year after my move to Mexico, I had finally experienced my first real tremor, I had never been more scared in my life. From then on, the nightmares had bled into reality, and I could no longer close my eyes for fear of seeing the walls vibrate endlessly again. This couldn’t go on like this, as a result I decided to volunteer my time at the dog shelter located a few blocks from my flat. The constant anxiety that I was feeling at that time made my heart race far more than it should : I was simply going to walk dogs after all.

I knocked on their door and asked in my broken Spanish if it was possible to walk one of their animals. I was handed an enormous, overexcited hound who, after not even five minutes, had managed to make me regret my choice a million times. My arms were sore from all the pulling and I felt like I needed a god cry (but this part wasn't atypical). Feeling awkward, I retraced my steps and wen back to the shelter. I explained to the helper that I would prefer to start with a slightly more... gentle dog. Without saying a word, he closed the door on my nose. Embarassed, I did not really know what I should do. I felt guilty from my own honestly and thought that maybe something had been lost in translation, maybe I had been rude. I had the impression that I was being taken for a typical güerita who only wanted to walk animals for the instagramable aspect of charity. My anxious mind was spiraling. After a few minutes, I hear the crack of the opening door and immediately received a violent kick to the stomach. Breathless, I saw her. Her, with her long coat almost as blond as my hair, but matted as if a brush had never come near it. Her and her enormous fluffy ears. Her, with her big, crusty brown eyes and the scar on her stomach that boded nothing good. Speechless, not knowing what to do, I watched her jump to the left to the right. Happy just to be happy. Happy to see me, whom she had never seen before. I would have been tearful if she hadn't suddenly chased a cat, carrying me away with her, forever.

After a short while, I was finally sleeping, and I was certain it was all thanks to her. I was walking her every day. She was the sweetest being I had ever seen. Was it possible to care as much for a dog I did not own ? One day, I saw her happy face on my Instagram feed: she was up for adoption, and several people mentioned they had already filled out the application. I decided on a whim that she was going to be mine. At 32 years old, I had no possessions other than what fit in my two suitcases, and was living from one apartment sublet to another, far away from home. But who cares : there was no way our meeting was accidental. We were meant to meet. She, who had been found wandering in a dump, pregnant and skin and bones. And I, homeless in my own way.

Two days later, she had a forever home and a mother.

We got up to mischief in Mexico City. She accompanied me everywhere I went, whether it was to a restaurant for Sunday brunch or a hike in the forest. I saw her run, bursts after bursts of zoomies, even in dangerous places I would never have visited if it hadn't been for her. She swam in the Pacific ocean, she went in the mountains of Oaxaca, she shared an Airbnb bed with me in Guadalajara. Next to her, I sensed my anxiety vanishing. I needed her to feel good and to feel like myself again. She was my protector. Yet, she had definitely failed guard dog school: she wanted to be petted by every stranger who crossed her path while being afraid of black dogs, and she whined at cats. But still, she was my shelter and my shield. And I, in turn, protected her from everything and everyone.

Years went and we moved from one country to another. Anxiety is a rollercoaster of emotions and it still sometimes consumed me so much that only burying my face in her fur calmed me. She discovered squirrels in Canada, and even if she chased after them less and less, the fact that her face still lit up at their sight never ceased to warm my soul. Love is so selfish when you think about it.

She was guarding me a few weeks ago when I was brushing her long mixed breed fur and she growled at something moving on the other side of the window. While the brush rubbed against a newly found foreign body, she protected me from that nasty leaf that was simply dancing in the wind. She thought she was being rewarded with the cuddles she loved so much when I held back my tears as I touched it.

A few days later, already moving with more difficulty, I embraced her again and again. I needed to protect her even more than before.

As you gently close your eyes to the rhythm of morning cuddles, your gaze turns softly toward the lit window. You haven’t changed: you’re still happy nevertheless. And I know I’m protecting you from a long, painful, dreadful end. So, we must leave home soon to chase that fragile rainbow before it vanishes forever.