How my dog is digging me out of my depression

The absolute joy that is owning a pet

Aspen, the literal light of my life ✨

I’m sitting in my backyard, out on my patio furniture that I’ve finally unveiled after a long, rainy (and snowy!) winter. There are lots of little critters climbing out of the crevices. A few spiders from the pillows, a few slugs from the cover, and even a few worms from under the fire pit table. Aspen, my dog, is sprawled in the sun, getting dirt all over herself. A butterfly has just flown past, catching her attention. She gets up to follow it but proceeds to get distracted by something near the planter. She’s bobbing her head and pawing at something. I crane my neck to see, and it’s one of the worms from under the table. It’s squiggled its way over to the pot, likely sensing the dirt that’s inside. I have no idea if Aspen has ever seen a worm before. It doesn’t look like it by the way she keeps jerking back her head, as if saying that popular Cardi B soundbite: “Ohmigod, what is that? What IS that?!” I can’t help but giggle. It’s just one of the many – millions – of times I will laugh today as I watch her move through the world. I can always count on her to boost my mood, to bring me joy.

I say this because the last few years have been a challenge for me. I’ve always dealt with anxiety and a dash of depression, but they’ve been in full force for a while now, spurred by a combination of both old and new trauma. Last summer I think I hit my lowest. Even with the sunshine, I couldn’t shake my dark mood. My freelance work was slow, and because I still haven’t healed the wound that tells me I’m only worth what’s in my wallet, I felt useless, purposeless. It was harder than it had ever been to get out of bed in the morning. I tried the usual things therapists and gurus tend to suggest: deep breathing and gratitude. I also recognize how sad it is to say that some days I could only think of one or two things I was grateful for, one of which was always my dog.

Don’t get me wrong, my husband was often on the list as well, but it’s different with him than it is with Aspen. First of all, he has a job, and at the time, that was amplifying my feelings of uselessness. Aspen, however, is a shameless freeloader. This was something I felt we had in common. Sure, she might get up early with my husband, but right after going to the bathroom and eating her food, it’s right back to bed for her. I, however, was struggling to get out of bed, but still forced myself to because I feel like I *should.* Yet when I was tired later in the day from the general overwhelm of an anxious-depressive existence, I told myself I *shouldn’t* take a nap. Aspen, however, does whatever she pleases. She sleeps when she needs to sleep, and she demands to go out when she needs to go out. She, unburdened by any sort of responsibility, honors her body. Sure, she doesn’t have the same level of conscious thought and runs primarily on instinct, but it’s still a potent reminder for me, especially when I’m in the throes of an episode.

I often think how strange it is that we have this animal, this little piece of nature, just living in our house. “Owning” her is such an interesting concept. She both is and isn’t mine. She’s not my child – she’s not even a human – and yet she is my baby. I imagine what I feel for her – this love that sometimes physically hurts – is the “beauty of parenting” people are always talking about. Don’t worry, I know she’s a dog, but the the love feels very real regardless of her genetic makeup. It’s crazy to me that she doesn’t even speak, yet we understand each other. Like when I’m sitting at the kitchen table working on my computer and she comes up and boops my leg, I know she’s wanting to go outside. I know it isn’t because she needs to go potty, because she’s already been out twice. No, she just wants to sit in the dirt and gaze out into the yard, maybe stalk a squirrel or two. She can’t read. She doesn’t have a cell phone that distracts her. She just sits, sniffs, and observes. That alone is her entertainment. In a way, she is mindfulness personified. Often when I’m observing her being observational, I realize I too am practicing mindfulness. And on the bad days, that feels like a really big win.

I love her despite knowing she’s far from perfect. She’s smart. Almost too smart. She knows her commands, it’s just a matter of whether or not she wants to listen to them. I can see the defiance in her eyes as she shifts them back and forth, trying to decide if she wants to listen to me or not. She’s a strong, independent girl with a big attitude and an insatiable penchant for murdering our backyard wildlife. (The murderous moments are more joyous for her than they are for me, let me tell you.) She’s been like this – defiant that is, not murderous – since she was a puppy. From day one she has known her needs and wants and made them abundantly clear. Like when we tried to sequester her in the kitchen of our townhouse while we were working from home during the pandemic and she clawed all the insulation out from under the dishwasher because she wanted attention. Luckily we were still able to sell the house regardless of her reckless renovations.

That’s love, though, isn’t it? Accepting someone, faults and all. Sure, I get frustrated with her, but I still love Aspen no matter what. Honestly, I give her the grace I often don’t give myself. For example, during the deepest parts of my depression, particularly when I’m in a freelance lull, I have a tendency to feel worthless. My anxiety chimes in too, telling me my husband is fed up with me mooching off him, that I’m undeserving to stay home when I don’t have children to raise. All of these things are untrue, of course, but they put up a very loud and exhausting fight, one that’s often kept me in a freeze state, unable to do anything else but stare at my phone and scroll for hours. Aspen, however, needs walks. In that way, she’s a built-in forcing function. Some days I can only make it to the backyard, but at least I go outside, and I have her to thank for that.

What I can thank her for the most is how she makes me laugh. Oh, how she makes me laugh. Even mid breakdown, she can make me smile through the tears. She’s always the bright spot on the dark days. The way she gets so excited for treats, giving me a free spin or two without being commanded and catching them mid-air. The way she paws at my legs to force me to make a nest for her in my lap when we’re on the couch. The way she tilts her head when I say the magic words: “Do you wanna go to the park?” The way she patiently waits for her dinner, her feet slowly sliding out behind her on the linoleum, until I give the release command. The way she sleeps on the chair in my office, belly up with her legs in the air like a dead bug.

I have so many photos and videos of these things on my phone. To the naked eye, they look like duplicates, like I really need to get a handle on my phone storage. And it’s true, they’re all so similar, yet I’m delighted by them every time. Not one day goes by where I don’t urge my husband to look at whatever cute thing she’s doing that she’s done twelve thousand times before. I do it because it brings me so much joy, but there’s also another reason. I try not to think about it, but in the back of my mind I know she won’t always be here. I’ll miss the day I no longer hear the tippy-tap of her nails on our hardwood floors. Her puppy dream whimpers in my office. Even her barks at passersby at the window. She’s a beautifully potent reminder of the fleeting nature of life. Everything she is and does means so much more because she’ll only be here for so long. When everything feels overwhelming, she puts it all into perspective.

Depression can make you feel like nothing is worth it. Like you as a person aren’t worth it. But in their special way, pets can remind you that you are. They don’t care what you look like. They don’t care if you have a job (unless, of course, it means fewer treats for them). When I was talking to my therapist about Aspen, she said: “Dogs are just here to give and receive love.” What a heartbreakingly beautiful truth that is. How gut-wrenchingly awful life can be at times, but how amazingly wonderful it is to live it by loving and being loved by creatures who just can’t help it. Their essence and innocence can be our biggest teacher, our biggest blessing. And in our darkest moments, it can be our saving grace. Aspen changes the way I look at the world. She makes me pay more attention to it. She reminds me what a gift it is not just to exist, but to live. How lucky I am to get to share a sliver of life with her.