A Choice

There are the stories we tell about the important moments of our lives. Stories we’ve refined in the retelling until they feel more like parables.

That’s like the story of us. How I met you exactly four years ago; my third meeting of the day that unlikely ended up as my first. The instant connection, a fated union.

But the truth is a little messier, and far more exciting.

That I had limited time to decide if I wanted to adopt you and could only think of one question to ask: will he fit in a bag?

That, as I walked you from the adoption event to Petco I kept saying to myself, “what have I gotten myself into?” That I was entirely unsure of you, and you me, looking at me with judgmental eyes and what I perceived to be a frown.

That I spent days searching online to see if you had been listed as missing from a home on Long Island, where you were found. Not because I wanted to lose you but because you seemed sad and I wondered if you missed your “real” family.

That I was afraid I might lose my job when your six week barking embargo ended with an epic freakout in my bosses office.

Or when you decided to diarrhea in the middle of a meeting and I decided to catch it with my hands.

That I found it easier to sleep with your warm tail brushing against my face.

And that I realized slowly and then all at once that I was your real family. And you were mine.

Calling us fated seems too easy, too unencumbered. We were a choice. And every day I will choose you again. And again.

To my funny, willful, mysterious, rambunctious Valentine mutt. Thank you for choosing me that day.