My Lamb at the Devil's Door

The garage in 2016 didn't smell like a beginning; it smelled like the end. I remember the weight of the air, heavy with the exhaust and the even heavier silence of a soul that had simply run out of reasons to try. I was a casualty of a four-hour nightmare with Xander—a brutal, gruesome fight that had left me alive in body but extinguished in spirit. I sat there, thinking, I’m just so tired. I’ve fought enough. I am done!

Then came the miracle.

He was four weeks old, a tiny, brindle scrap of life rescued from a crack den. When the vet told me his bowels were twisted, that he was malnourished, chronic ear infection and riddled with fleas, the suggestion was to "let him go." My internal dialogue sparked for the first time in years: No. If he’s a fighter, I’m a fighter. We aren't going anywhere. I saved him from that needle, and in exchange, he gently nudged me away from my own.

The first year was our golden era. I remember the rhythm of our 3 km morning runs on the beach track—the salt air hitting my face, my Lamb’s ears flopping in the wind. He was my "Lovey Lamb," but he was a picky soul. He didn't love everyone, and I loved him more for it. I’d look at him and think, You’re right, Lamb. We don’t need the noise. We just need each other. When he got expelled from daycare at twelve weeks for being "mischievous," I didn't scold him. I whispered, "It's okay, buddy. They just can't handle your light."

Life became a series of sacred rituals. Every morning, the smell of scrambled eggs and spinach filled the kitchen. We sat together—my only true family. At night, it was kangaroo and sweet potato. I’d watch him eat and feel a sense of peace I hadn't known since before the trauma. I made our home a sanctuary of "inside" comforts. I’d see him curled up on his bed and think, As long as you’re safe, I’m safe.

But then came 2018. The CRPS injury didn’t just break my body; the painkillers stole my mind. There were days I was a hollow shell, a "brain-dead" version of the woman who used to run 3km. I remember looking at my Lamb through a pharmaceutical fog, thinking, I’m drifting away. I’m turning cold.

But he wouldn't let me drift. He followed me into the shower, his wet fur pressing against my legs. He sat at my feet while I was on the toilet, his eyes never leaving mine. Even when I was so far gone that I left the front door wide open, he never stepped outside. He stood guard over my brokenness. On the nights I danced and sang through a haze of weed and prescription cocktails, he’d just lay his head on my lap, his steady heartbeat saying, I’m here. Come back to me.

And I did. I came back for him, again and again.

Now, it is January 2026, and the air has changed. I’m in a toxic house with an ex-husband and his mother—a soul-killing environment that tries to dim my light every day. And my Lamb, my beautiful nine-year-old protector, is tired. I watch him struggle to breathe, his body overheating even in the cool air-con. I see the pain in his eyes and the "monster" in my head whispers, How can you let him go? You’re a monster for choosing this.

But then I look at his wardrobe—his denim jackets, his bumblebee outfit, the grip socks. I remember the Christmases and the cookies. I look at my manuscripts, the writing I’ve finally sent off. And my heart answers the monster: No. I’m not a monster. I’m his protector now.

He saved me from the garage. He saved me from the drugs. He stayed until I was strong enough to plan my move to finally be free from this toxicity. He got me to the exit of the "devil's door." I’m scared of the unknown. I’m scared of the bugs and the silence. But my Lamb taught me how to be loved. He taught me that I am worth a 3km run, a shared breakfast, and a fierce, loyal protection. As I prepare to say goodbye, I realize he isn't leaving me. He’s just passing the torch.

I will walk into my next phase alone, but I will carry the heart of my lovey Lamb. I saved him in August 2016, but he spent the next nine years making sure I was worth saving.

A Poem for My Dearest Friend

This time I hear you, through the heavy January heat,

You say, "I need to go," in the way your ribs struggle for air.

The stillness creeps into the corners of this toxic house,

But your eyes, clouded and deep, say, "I am always here—

It’s just my time to stop being your shield and start being your star." You nudge me, that picky, stubborn tilt of your head,

And my heart, which I thought was broken beyond repair,

Is suddenly just for you. Only for you.

I cuddle you right on through the memories—

The denim jackets, the scrambled eggs, the beach track at dawn—

Holding the only soul who saw me in the garage and stayed.

Some sort of life awaits to my right,

A terrifying "unknown" of homelessness and bugs a space of darkness,

As you pass to the left, frozen still, headed into the light.

I am caught in the middle, a survivor without her sentry,

Torn between the lines of fear and a blame I can’t outrun.

I begin to wonder why I can’t undo your pain.

I saved you from the twisted bowels, the fleas, the crack-den cold,

So why am I powerless against the ticking of the clock?

Where did I go wrong?

Did I lose a piece of our friendship in the darkness?

In the years where the pills turned my world into a fog,

While you sat by my side, guarding a ghost?

I would have stayed in the dark forever just to keep you near,

But I see the way you puff, the way you overheat,

And I realize I am dragging you to a fight you’ve already won.

You got me out. You kept me alive.

I wish I knew how to save a life without having to lose it.

Please know that you are my true love, my one and only Lovey Lamb.

When the sun hits my face in my new beginning,

I will look for your shadow.

I will eat our famous breakfast and remember the dancing. Forever I will hold you in my heart.

You aren't leaving me; you’re just finally laying down your sword.

Go on, buddy. I’ve got it from here.