By Brittany Tiplady
@yellowbird888

I am I because my little dog knows me. — Gertrude Stein

I spend four nights a week at home, alone. 

My husband works a graveyard shift, we’ve had this schedule for years now. But the isolation of the past year has made my solo evenings challenging and fraught with anxiety. Some nights, the quiet is welcome as I come down from a frazzling day at the laptop, but not every night is so peaceful. 

In the process of adapting to the social isolation of the pandemic, I thought that my depression was going to swallow me whole.

In our first apartment together, the one we shared for almost six years, I hid from my body. Mirrors were easy to avoid, and so, I often chose not to go near them.

But when we moved into our new apartment this past July, I quickly learned that this was no longer going to be possible. Our new bathrooms are wrapped with long, sprawling, early 2000s mirrors. They became the thing I feared most when, during a day of painting and construction, I discovered a brand new set of garish stretch marks crawling up my belly as I turned around from the toilet to pull up my overalls. They demanded my attention, staring me straight in the eye, asking me why I waited so long to notice them. 

I scream-cried to my husband in our empty living room. 

I felt soiled, frustrated and completely, wholly ashamed of a body I could no longer predict or control. 

For the next five months, every evening alone in my new apartment was a new mental health battle—the pandemic isolation surely contributing greatly. Each time I stepped into my bathroom, I felt like I was walking into the belly of the beast.

When we found out our rescue dog would be arriving from Korea at the end of December, we held a lot of hope for this new addition. We’d been searching for a dog to join our family for months, sending out applications to local rescue organizations almost weekly with no luck. We hoped for a healthy change of routine and for company when I was feeling sad and lonely and lost. 

I have never really yearned for children, but I have always, always yearned for my very own dog. 

I’ve been a crazy dog lover since babyhood, a certified Dog Girl™ if you will. When I was little, I put my toddler hands around a German Shepherd tied up outside of the grocery store, completely oblivious to its growling in my ear. My (very terrified) mom gently coaxed me to step away from the nice doggie. 

Growing up, our family had boxers: Lucy and Penny. They were our siblings. We loved them fiercely and their deaths rocked our family for months and years afterward. In my early 20s, I lived with my best friends and I loved and cared for their dog Beau like my own.

Polly, formerly Pongah, is a blonde and scruffy terrier cross rescued from the streets of Seoul, Korea by an organization called AniBand. Her arrival at the airport was fluorescent with emotion—our hands shook as we cut the zip ties on her pet carrier. She walked out slowly, looked at us both, and licked me on the nose. 

She bonded to us immediately—me especially, and we became drunkenly in love with her the moment we leashed her up and pranced out of YVR as a brand new family of three.

Polly is as easy as she is complicated and difficult. She’s trepidatious, and curious. Extremely chill and always down to nap. Maddeningly stubborn, and quick to form habits. She loves to say hello to every human on the street with a wagging tail. We love how she dramatically stretches her legs, crawling across the apartment in a downward dog before her walks. 

Her presence in our home has changed our marriage, too. 

Overnight, everything became about Polly. Our text messages are now all about the firmness and frequency of her poops, with photos to prove it. We talk ad nauseum about her health and wellbeing and finding the right food to fix her skin and digestive issues (something we’ve finally nailed after four weeks). We come home with detailed reports about the behaviour she exhibited on her walk (usually, extremely naughty). On the weekends, when we are on the couch re-watching old episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, we pause to smother her with love and baby talk as she sprawls across her corner of the couch. When we went to a restaurant last week, one of our first times leaving her alone, we showed our server the live footage of her at home from the nanny cam. “We’re like nervous new parents!” we laughed. 

We often joke that we’ve completely lost our minds over her but we’ve never been happier. 

Of course, dog ownership is as challenging as it is blissful. Dogs are as expensive and as much work as you might expect (get the pet insurance, you’ll be so glad you did). When people tell me that they “don’t have time for a dog” I believe that they probably don’t. But for those who want or can make the time, I must tell you that it is time spent so, so well.

Polly has been in our life for just over six weeks and I don’t spend my evenings in the mirror anymore. 

Instead, I walk my dog, sometimes in the pouring rain, begging her to take a shit. I wipe her paws, teach her to sit, and scratch her belly as she swiftly curls onto her back raising her arms stiff and wide. I call her many names, give her many kisses, and speak to her in silly, swoony sentences. On the days when the rare Vancouver sunshine begs to be enjoyed, I never have to tell myself to “get outside” only to continue scrolling. I’m already out there, every morning at 8:15, then 12:30, 4:30, and 8 PM. My coat pockets are lined with treats.

I’ve never been more present than I am now and, as an added bonus, my screen time is down weekly. 

Every night before bed when I place her on my chest and coo “you’re my best friend and I love you so much!” she licks my nose, and her disgusting breath sticks to my face and I couldn’t care less. We’ve become thick as thieves, my girl and I.

Polly is starting to come into her own—after weeks of sleeping 16+ hours a day, she is becoming more playful, wiggling for walks and instigating play. She’s still the ultimate chiller— it’s now obvious that Polly’s favourite thing in the world is when she’s on the couch with mom and dad, being loved and doted on—but we are noticing a positive uptick in her energy levels as she continues to become more and more herself. 

Nurturing a dog from shelter life to home life, in a new country, is a huge undertaking that has miraculously and wonderfully nurtured me in return. Her progress doesn’t have KPIs or come with harsh feedback and edits. But watching her emerge out of her shell, building trust in us and her surroundings, makes my insides swell. She has leaps and bounds to go in her training and development, but we know she’ll get there–she’s one of the best investments we’ve ever made.

Dogs are not a replacement for therapy or medication, but having her in my life has flipped the script on my fragile mental health. My duty to care for her, and ensure her health and happiness, has trumped any past desires to spend my free time berating my body. Caring for her has enriched the scaffolding of my life with a renewed sense of purpose.

I’m not interested in self-destruction anymore, I have a little dog to cuddle. And while my internalized shame and fatphobia and depression has not evaporated, the journey to recovery feels less grim and far less lonely.

Loving a dog will rearrange you. Even as a lifelong dog person, I could have never imagined the way welcoming Polly into our life would change our health and the rhythm of our home. Her arrival has affirmed that the love of a dog is a force that will pummel right at you, ready to make you handle your shit. 

I wanted a dog for a long, long time, but Polly came when she was supposed to—right when I needed her and right when she needed us, too. 

As I write this, while she’s snoring on the couch next to me, her little paws twitching, I’m reminded of every rescue dog owner who told me that getting her would change my life for the better. 

They could not have been more right.

Dear Polly, 

Thank you.