thank God for Dogs
In one of the chapters in my book, "To the Man I Called Father," I touch on the dog that saved my life.
I should have written about the other dogs that made such a difference for the rest of my family.
My son had a big black doodle that visited him in the hospital every few days while he recovered from TEN — toxic epidermal necrolysis.
My daughter had multiple dogs in her corner through her recovery and the PTSD from what my father had done — a Goldendoodle and a Golden Retriever.
She even had a victim advocate who met us at the courthouse for every hearing and trial, with a large, lovable French Mastiff. It gave us a sense of relief and comfort before stepping into that courtroom.
My own recovery — from the PTSD of my father's betrayal and the loss of so much of my family — came from a puppy that wasn't even meant for me. He was meant for my wife and kids, in hopes he'd bring a little joy into the middle of what we were facing.
I didn't expect that dog to have such an impact on me.
Nothing pulls you out of your own thoughts, your regrets, your anxiety faster than a puppy. They pull you into the moment — the present.
My dog had an uncanny sense for the exact moment I needed a nudge. He'd smack me with his paw, or shove his nose against me.
In those moments, when he pulled me into the present, I always found a little grace.
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