Unhaunting: The Best Bad Decision

I don’t remember exactly why I was looking for a dog.

Memory is a sticky thing for me. But the important thing is that I was in fact looking for a dog. And at the time, in Pensacola, Florida the place that made the most sense for me to go looking for a dog was good old Craigslist. I don’t remember if I searched for German Shepherds, a hangover interest from childhood, or if I stumbled upon him. But there he was. Somewhere in the vicinity of fifteen weeks old, vaccinated, neutered, and ready to go to his new home. He was living with a college student who had picked him up from the local shelter and quickly realized she couldn’t provide him with the amount of attention he needed between work and school, and was hoping to find him a better fit. 

If a client came to me now, all these years later, asking if they should get a pediatric neuter German Shepherd puppy of unknown history from a college student off craigslist?
Thank god I didn’t know any better. 

I was smitten. 

He looked into the camera, tiny tongue panting. Tiny paws delicately placed in front of him - a near-daintiness he’d embody throughout the rest of his life. Not so tiny ears standing at attention to the best of their half crumpled ability. 

I don’t remember how much convincing my then-husband required. It can’t have been much, because a couple of days later I was driving alone to go get him while he stayed at work. 

His guardian was kind and welcoming, and invited me in. I tried to maintain composure, and at least try to evaluate him with a semblance of objectivity. To try to understand who he was, who he would be, and if we would be happy living together. 

He was a ball of fuzz, sitting on a red fluffy rug with a blue toy. 

He was still so small he hadn’t quite reached the gangly stage of puppyhood. He waddled over to say hello, and show me his toy. 

I knew he was the one. 

I don’t have an explanation. It could have been impulsivity. It could have been an alignment of the stars. It could have been fate, grace, or dumb luck. Whatever it was, that puppy would save me time and again in ways large and small. But at that moment, all I knew was that he was perfect, and he was coming home with me. 

All at once, I found myself driving my car - one that was running on duct tape, hope, and Florida’s lenient emissions policies, with a puppy in my lap.

Suddenly, I was a 21 year old, recently married Bible College graduate who was unknowingly careening towards a crisis of faith; who had only been solely responsible for an ill-fated fish prior to this - and I had a puppy in my lap. 

Over the next eleven years, I would move house eight times, and hold fourteen jobs. I would lose my faith, fall apart, realize I was queer, fall in and out of love, have a mental health crisis or two. Have a physical health crisis or three. I’d lose friends and partners; gain friendships that are still life giving. I would wrestle with a complicated relationship to my family, my faith, my country of origin. 

And this tiny puppy in my lap, trying to help me steer, would become the most consistent, stable presence in my life. 

But neither of us had any idea that was up ahead. Mostly, I was trying to stay on the road, keep him on the seat, and come up with a name for him. He was trying to look out the window, sniff out crumbs, and kiss my face. 

I called him Yadi.