My Celia

This story contains themes of mental health and intimate partner violence.

Celia’s been spending more time at home lately. Don’t get me wrong; I love spending time with her. Having her home makes me so happy that I spin around in circles and my tail won’t stop wagging. She is by far my favorite human. But something’s been a little off with her recently, and I can’t quite put my nose on it.

We’ve been together since I was a pup, and I don’t remember much about life before her. I just know that Celia makes everything better. Long walks in the neighborhood, treats and belly rubs, and snuggling in the bed, every day with her is the best day ever as far as I’m concerned. She takes the utmost care of me, and I know she loves me as much I love her. Of late, though, she won’t get out of bed until lunchtime, and we don’t go on walks anymore. In fact, she doesn’t really leave the house at all. I’m starting to get concerned.

A few weeks ago, she stopped going to work. I never quite understood why. Work was her special activity, even though I didn’t care for it. Work took her away from me, but it seemed to make her happy. She was always super excited to see me when she came home from work, dropping all her things to catch me as I jumped, writhing and wriggling, into her arms. We would wrestle and play a short game of chase around the house before she would get me something to eat. Then we would take our evening walk, the most wonderful part of my day.

That day was different. “Daisy,” she said, dropping her purse on the kitchen counter, “I’m unemployed. Hopefully not for long. How about we celebrate my severance tonight with a special dinner?”

I shook my entire body enthusiastically. A special dinner usually meant something shareable with me, so I was definitely down with that. As far as the rest of her news, I was happy about it at first, because that meant she could spend more time with me. I always hated work; I was left alone without my Celia. But as the days passed, Celia seemed increasingly upset and stressed. Something about work was important to her.

Having her home was fantastic, but she spent more time on her phone and computer than she did with me. I tried to get her to play, but she said she was looking for a new job on those contraptions. All I know is that those screens made her very uptight. Celia would type and type, sometimes get dressed up for a video conference, act hopeful for a few days, and then open her email. The email never seemed to bring good news. This cycle repeated for weeks, and Celia became despondent. I began to hate her electronics for making her so sad.

To save something called money, Celia started changing our habits. For example, she started giving me baths at home instead of taking me to the groomer. I don’t really like baths, but I love spending time with Celia, so it evened out. I learned to live with this new bath situation until Celia broke down and started crying into the bubble bath after I made a big splash and soaked the entire bathroom. I thought we were playing, but maybe I did something wrong? After she cleaned up the bathroom, she called to me softly in her lovely sing-song voice, and I knew she wasn’t angry after all. We snuggled and fell asleep on the couch.

Those crying episodes began happening more often, though, over the craziest things – a spilled glass of milk, a broken dish in the dishwasher, the mail, and the man who comes over sometimes. I never liked him all that much. He smelled funny, but Celia would order me to be nice, so I did, for her sake. He wasn’t very nice back. Stan, as Celia called him, spoke to both of us in a very inappropriate tone. He never shared food or gave me pets. Celia seemed to like him, for reasons I never understood. Celia is a queen and should be treated as such! Stan always treated both of us with a hint of disdain. I never thought he deserved Celia.

When Stan made Celia cry, though, that was the last straw for me. After opening yet another disappointing email and some heavy-looking mail, Celia texted Stan and asked him to come over. I guess she was looking for comfort, but I was right there! Stan arrived, looking less than pleased at Celia’s disheveled state. Celia was never the type to ask for anything, but in a vulnerable moment, she told Stan about her struggles to find work. Stan exploded, accusing Celia of being lazy and not trying hard enough to get a new job. He grabbed her arm just a little too hard, and I growled at him. Stan tried to kick me, and Celia ordered him to leave. I nipped at his butt on his way out before Celia slammed the door. I kept barking until I was sure he was gone and then went to lick Celia on the face.

“Oh Daisy, my girl,” Celia said, “what am I going to do? I am so alone.”

“No, you aren’t,” I huffed and licked with all my might. “I am right here.”

Today, I had to drag her out of bed. I really had to go outside to potty, and I was starving. I’m pretty sure it was the afternoon. The sun seemed high when I finally got her to take me outside. She was in the same ratty pajamas that she’s been wearing for a week now. I don’t know the last time she took a shower. Her voice was cracked and groggy sounding, and her eyes looked dead. I’ve never been so worried about her. I tried dancing around her and grabbing our favorite ball. There was no interest. I jumped up on her, which usually elicits a laugh or a command to sit, but got nothing. She fed me in a daze and curled up on the couch. My Celia had been replaced with some sort of zombie.

I ate my food while I contemplated my next move. A pup needs energy for these sorts of critical, human-saving missions.

“I feel my best when I’m with Celia, outside in the sunshine. I need to get her outside somehow,” I thought to myself.

We always had so much fun on our walks. She would laugh when the wind would blow her hair. She would stop and listen to the birds sing or admire the neighbors’ roses. Sometimes she’d play double-dutch with the girls down the street while I hung out with their dog. We had a great time playing with them. Out in the sunshine with her feet in the grass, sometimes Celia acted like a pup herself, joyful and weightless. She seemed so much freer then; I knew what I had to do.

I finished my breakfast and snuck over to the laundry basket full of unfolded clothes. I rummaged around a bit before finding and grabbing what I was looking for - her favorite walking outfit, the t-shirt that looks like a swirled-up rainbow and purple jogging shorts. I trotted over to her with the clothes in my mouth, head held high and tail dancing. She groaned at me when I dropped them on her head.

“Not now, Daisy,” she said and rolled over on her back, extricating herself from the clothing items.

I ran back to the front door and grabbed her walking shoes, one at a time. I brought each black and neon pink trainer to her and dropped them on her stomach, baring my teeth in my best grin.

“You crazy dog, I said no,” Celia said, almost cracking a smile.

I immediately went to the corner where my toys were stashed and dug out my leash, sending toys flying everywhere. She thought I didn’t know where it was. I dragged the pink leash with my name on it over to her and jumped up on top of her.

“Oof, what are you doing? Get off me!” Celia exclaimed, half laughing.

I began to whine and lick her face with an urgency that would not take no for an answer. We were going for a walk, or she would drown in dog spit.

“Fine, fine, you win! We will go for a walk! I got the message,” Celia sat up, dumping me off her with the first real smile I’d seen from her in weeks.

Celia laughed at me as I zoomed around the house waiting for her to get dressed. I was so excited to see her smile again, to go outside with her again. She is my best friend. She brushed the top of my head with her hand as we walked out the door, and I thought I would explode with joy. My Celia is coming back.