Not Peanut Butter

The crying's stopped, at least.

What is that advice you give to people who've recently broken up? "Get back out there! Plenty of dogs in the pound!"

So I agreed to take a dog for the weekend whose foster was going out of town. Another pit mix, smaller than my son and younger by a year. She's striped like a tiger and has white paws, like my son.

She has giardia and has to wear a head cone so she won't lick her butt.

"She's so cute, you're gonna love her," the rescue coordinator enthused.

An hour of throwing water bottles (a cheap toy), shooing her off the bed repeatedly, and watching her eat every teeny piece of food off Selena's carpet and kitchen, I want to lay down. I can't even put her in the flimsy portable kennel, which she basically attempts to walk with while shut inside.

And my heart aches.

It's that first date you go on after you lose your soulmate and you want to like this new person, but you reach out with a joke or a light hand and they don't get it or they're awkward or stand-offish and you're left feeling hollow, struck with just how UNlike your love they are. And then the comparisons begin.

She's not hyper smart like Peanut Butter, whom I could train almost telepathically.
She doesn't come when you sit down, sinking into your arms and plopping onto your lap.
She's not soulful, doesn't look deeply into your eyes and hold your gaze, dog to human.
She doesn't look up to make sure I'm okay, that I'm there.
She's not timid, picky with her food. She'll eat anything. ANYTHING.
She's doesn't care if you walk out of the room.

She's just a dog.

And just once, when she came to finally lie by me with her water bottle and sat still enough for me to pet her, the crust around the blister on my heart crumbled and I discovered the tears are not over.