At the hospital, psychologists hosted groups about spirituality. I thought spirituality meant religion. I’m not religious, so I never went. I’m not sure why it took so long, but only today—when I was petting my dog—did it occur to me that it was possible to be spiritual without being religious.
My family adopted a rescue dog from a different country. He had been captured by the local animal control office, where many dogs are literally buried alive and left to starve to death. A woman from a rescue went to the office in hopes of saving a doggy, told the security guard that her missing dog was inside, and slid some money under the table in exchange for my little dog.
She recorded their first encounter. His fur had grown long to the point of covering his eyes and he looked wet and muddy, like he had slept in the muddy enclosure for days. In the video, there were six or seven dogs barking desperately at the camera from behind the metal fence. My doggy barked louder than all of the other dogs. He stuck his muzzle through the fence and pushed so hard that the metal rattled. The woman could only save one doggy, and she chose my doggy because, she said, “from the way he was barking, I could just tell that he had an unrivaled will to live.”
My mother happened upon a post about a rescued dog on social media, and that’s how we came to welcome a dog to the family.
We connected in a way I had never expected. He follows me everywhere I go in the house, even to the bathroom. He naps next to me as I blog, but somehow he knows when I get up from my chair and his eyes instantly snap open as though he was not asleep to begin with. He thinks he’s a cat sometimes, because he copies my kitties when he sees them licking their paws. He can pick up a new trick in ten minutes. When I pet his tummy, he rolls and purrs like a kitty.
He makes me feel like there’s a greater purpose to my life. It feels like we were meant to find each other. This was an unexpected friendship. I never thought I would adopt a dog in the first place, let alone a 5-year-old puppy from a different country. I imagine that when he was a stray dog, he had never expected to be going on road trips and having fun chasing birds at the park.
Part of me believes that, for the most part, the good and bad balance out. Sometimes, we win when we don’t deserve to or expect to, but sometimes we lose when we should have won fair and square. I want to believe that the pain I feel—that sense that I’m burning alive and I’ve lost control—can somehow be channeled for good. Maybe it’s so that I could write this blog and someone who really needed help could feel less alone. Maybe it’s so that I could speak out or write my own memoir, much like the dozens I have read by those who have recovered from suicidal depression.
In her book, Martha Linehan says that she promised God that if she got out of emotional hell, she would devote her life to helping others. I’m not religious, but I promise the universe that if I get out of emotional hell, that’s what I will do as well. Spirituality can take the form of religion, but, at its core, it’s the believe that we are part of something bigger; it’s something that gives us hope when a situation feels hopeless. I am so grateful that my doggy showed me that.
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