The Fear of Being Wrong

Man, I hate it when I get it wrong. And what makes this statement sting even more is that I HATE when I get it wrong after I fought so fucking hard for “it” in the first place. In this case, I’m eating it with the recent addition to our family, Kingsley, whom I battled to adopt come hell or high water.

But let me get something off my brain for one second.

My first dog was my baby. He was my everything and then some. And being that I didn’t know shit about being an animal “parent” I just assumed Rusty was usual and average. To me, he was life changing, but I assumed all people thought of their pets in the same way that I did.

And then one day I fucked up and didn’t take care of him the way I should have and, because of my actions, my beloved wingman was hit and killed on a freeway far, far away from his Momma. Roy and I picked up his body from the side of the road and I saw firsthand my stupidity at its most destructive.

Today, my heart has not healed. In fact, as I write this (AT WORK) I’m crying at my desk. (Nice CL, way to keep it professional.) But the fact has not changed that Rusty was NOT a normal pet or companion. He was beyond unique and special and I lost a one-of-a-kind-CL-soul-mate. He can’t be replaced.

But I have tried.

And cried.

I have bullied my family into visiting countless shelters, meeting all types of available pups, and wasting their free time on an obsession. I begged them to let me adopt every dog I come across because I KNEW that getting a new dog was going to make me a better person, help my relationship heal with my husband, bring me intense happiness, and IMMEDIATELY erase all the hurt and sadness that I carry with me.

YAY, band-aid doggie!

So, two days ago I insisted my family drive 2 and half hours to Carmel so we could, super suddenly and without discussion, adopt a 1 year old lab mix, whom we deemed Kingsley “Zissou” and I proudly crowned as the “life-fixer-upper” – no pressure on Kings. Nope, none at all.

I mean, why wouldn’t an insanely hyper puppy that has NO similar characteristics to my previous dog not make all the difference in leveling out the chemical imbalance of my mind???? And isn’t it TOTALLY realistic to assume that this new animal who requires:

tons of behavior training,

constant attention,

being leashed 24/7 so as to not kill the cat,

and whom elevates my husband’s stress level with his ONE LEG,

will immaculately erase all my worldly cares and make me happy once again?


What has now actually happened is that I miss Rusty more than ever, feel even worse about how he died, dislike the new dog for not being Rusty, dislike my husband for not being able to help enough, feel alone with my emotional charge, and want to crawl into some hole and just sleep. That sounds healthy, huh?!?! I really did very simply and naively believe that this one puzzle piece would bring the whole picture into clear focus.

To be fair to Kingsley, I have to give him a chance to introduce himself to me without the bias of my feelings for his predecessor. But what scares me is that I won’t be able to do that. And along with this, comes the realization that I forced an issue that had not resolved itself. It’s a shame I thought a new dog could accomplish SUCH A BIG JOB all on his own. He’s definitely a cutie with his own personality and vibe, and I pray that I fall in love with him in his own right…and soon. Let’s heal and move on. I’m ready.

Thanks for letting me share, this post was mostly for me.





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