A Pit Bull Saved My Life
Heal thy dog, heal thyself
I purchased him for $11.00, the price of the Washington, D.C. dog license fee. The Lyft home was more expensive. He was scrawny and recovering from a hit-and-run somewhere in downtown Baltimore. I thought he looked exactly like a teddy bear — a big ol’ head and warm chocolate brown eyes.
I was in a bad place. It was the beginning of March; D.C. and I were slowly defrosting, but the cherry blossoms and tourist season hadn’t bloomed yet. Heavy mud and a dewy, grey thaw still covered everything in sight. It was fitting. I was hurt — grey and melting too. My on-again, off-again boyfriend had gone on another drunken tirade and, as usual, used me as his favorite emotional punching bag.
Life was dull and monotonous. I had a fancy job on The Hill and was in charge of a significant amount of Congressional money. Congressmen regularly dropped into my office and I traded tips on designer purse flash sales over coffee with lobbyists. But I neither liked nor particularly wanted any of it. I made an honest attempt at convincing friends and family that I was living my dream.
“This is what I’ve always wanted,” I repeated.
The truth was my days were long and dreary.
When I first saw him, I didn’t really know or care that he was a pit bull. He had a funny mouth and a funnier disposition. He was clearly unaware of his size or the enormity of his big, blocky head. He was also the first thing that had made me genuinely belly laugh in weeks. Even months later, it’s difficult to fully explain how that affected me.
Not 24 hours before, I had been struggling with suicidal thoughts. Only weeks prior, after a bad interaction with insomnia medication, my doctor strongly recommended I check myself into a hospital for a mental health evaluation. Yet here I was, sitting on the floor of a run-down shelter in a bad part of Maryland laughing hysterically at this silly, goofy pup. I was enchanted.
The shelter said they didn’t know a lot about his history. They did know he was the victim of a hit-and-run — someone had left him on the streets of downtown Baltimore to die. That’s why his tail is crooked. A friendly animal control officer found him and the shelter nursed him back to health. They suspected he had been abused; he was clearly malnourished, and skittish around men in hats and sunglasses. After recovering from the crash, he was fostered for a few weeks. His temporary family loved him so much that they paid his adoption fees. He had been in the shelter too long and they wanted him to have a home.
As I signed the adoption papers, leaning over the cold concrete counter at the Washington Humane Society, one thought slowly started to take hold. If I could take care of this dog — this tiny, ridiculous, bony runt of a dog — then at least I could take care of something. This was an awareness to which I had become tragically unaccustomed: that I could actually do something good and that I deserved unwavering affection and support. I renamed him Toby, the name of the stuffed dog that nursed me back to health after a series of surgeries when I was 6, and the name of my favorite character of all time, Toby Ziegler of The West Wing.
With my dog at my side, I found strength and tenacity. After less than 24 hours with Toby, I found the strength to break up with my toxic, violent boyfriend for the very last time. We had undeniable chemistry when things were good. Physically, it was electric. But he had a sadistic streak and I had a bad habit of forgiving it. As a good friend later remarked, I “traded up.”
In the days after I took Toby home, the rest of my life slowly started to improve. I still struggled with depression and suicidal ideation, but now I had a reason to go outside. As my now ex-boyfriend frequently and unsubtly reminded me, I did not take care of myself and thus became his burden. When Toby replaced him, my daily schedule reoriented around something good and healthy. He instilled a necessary routine in the Washingtonian whirlwind in which I was caught. Thanks to our frequent walks, I lost weight and gained color in my cheeks. I only remembered to eat because he had to. The employees at Chipotle would bring out extra meat for him. Toby and I relied on each other.
When anxiety, panic, and disassociation sent me over the edge, Toby brought me back just by being there. Right next to me. He was stalwart and secure, my buoy in the darkness. Panic attacks would rush over my body in horrible waves, an onslaught from my traumatized brain and misfiring neurons. He withstood it all — disassocation and dry hiccuping sobs — in absolute silent acceptance. I would shake and become paralyzed with fear, and he would lay there with me, quietly enduring it when I was so sure that I didn’t deserve to live.
Toby recovered as I recovered, with setbacks and hard times and people doubting our strength.
Nearly a year later, I firmly believe that adopting him was not only the right choice, but the life-saving choice. Frequently, kind-hearted and over-confident strangers will remind me of pit bulls’ bad reputations. To this, I say: I have to battle two mental illnesses. And I don’t want to be on powerful benzodiazepines anymore. Nor do I want to romanticize, idealize, or consider suicide ever again. I choose this route instead, and I don’t intend to apologize for it.
Even though pit bulls have an unfair reputation, and scary-looking teeth, Toby protects me from myself. He looks strong because he is strong, much like I am. When I adopted him, he was 54 pounds of bone and gristle. He is now a hefty 70 pounds of peanut butter and flab. He is an invaluable addition and benefit. I am happy, healthy, and alive because of him.
***
Ed. note: Support more writing like this. Become a member of The Stories and get free exclusive content, every week.
