Small dogs have a way of looking like they have been consistently abused despite the perpetual love of their owner.
I’ve been that person that has had support animals her entire life before even knowing that they were support animals. This is Paris, my first ever registered support dog. I’ve been raising her since she was 5 weeks old. I’ve cured all of her ailments without a vet and she is pretty much my baby.
My mother seemed to always come around with a new puppy right in the midst of my descent into the dark hole of depression. It was like an elevator out to sudden sunshine, but I never knew if she knew what she was doing, or if it was just coincidental that a friend of hers just so happened to have puppies.
I’m always sad to leave her behind when I travel. She has been staying with my mom since I moved to L.A, and while I am grateful to have a living relative willing to care for her, I’m counting down to the day when I can finally take her to live with me again
. A few weeks after moving, I got a call that she went missing and they couldn’t find her anywhere. Everyone was at work and at school, and when they came home, she was nowhere to be found. My mom posted her support dog I.D onto the city’s bulletin board and within 10 minutes I got a phone call from the guy who she wandered off to that morning. He was good with dogs and said he had a feeling she was of support of some kind, so he spent his entire day taking her around to shelters, pet stores and the like looking to see if anyone was missing her.
Good people exist.
Yesterday my grandmother asked me if my dog was the only great-grandchild she was going to get.
Great! Another family member that is waiting for me to pop one out.