SUBMITTED BY PAGE HONEYMAN

I didn’t know I was depressed. Depression was something other people had. No, I was just tired all the time, and aimless, and overwhelmed. I was just so lethargic that I carved a divot in my couch cushion the exact shape of my butt and gave myself chronic back pain from sitting in the same position all day for days on end, and weeks, and months. I had graduated college. I had a loving relationship and nothing but potential. And I couldn’t make myself enjoy any of it—not fully.

Then one day my girlfriend said those four words that would change our lives forever: “Let’s get a dog.”

I didn’t know I had depression, sure, but I did know there was something off with me and I was terrified of being responsible for a little living critter when I was struggling so much just to take care of myself. But once we got to looking at adoptable dog pictures, I knew I’d never be able to say no.

We spent a few days looking all over town at different rescue organizations, meeting a couple dogs here and there, waiting to find the right fit. And one day we saw the sweet old face of a 10 year old foxhound pop up on the Oregon Humane Society website, and it was all over.

I was scared. The idea of not only adopting a dog, but an old dog who would certainly have health problems and needs I was unsure I’d be able to meet was daunting. But then we met her. She was skinny from the stress of being at the shelter for nearly a month, and her face was grey and kind, and she let us pet her and walk her around. And we were in love. $55 and some paperwork and Bailey was suddenly and indelibly ours.

And no, she didn’t magically fix my depression, but she did have to get walked every day and I had to get my butt up off the couch to make that happen. And she had to pee before bed and when we got up in the morning, so I got up for that, too. And my girlfriend found dog parks and hiking trails for us to explore, because Bailey had the heart of a puppy in her sweet old body and she lived for adventure and finding a squirrel to bark at.

And there were days when I didn’t want to get out and do all of that—maybe even every day for a while—but I did. I always got up because Bailey needed me to, and she wanted me to, and eventually I wanted to, also.

And sure, I left out a million little details about how much stress I endured caring for an ailing old hound dog with hip dysplasia and arthritis, who had separation anxiety, and all those other fun idiosyncrasies that every critter has in their own ways. But I also left out the way that she had a hoarse, quiet bark in the early days that eventually healed up after all the barking she had done in the shelter for so long. How it became a deep and powerful bark, but she would always hesitate between barks like she was saying “um” in her sentences. We liked to joke that she was thoughtful like that. Or how she had been adopted by another family before us, but after 4 days they brought her back because she attacked their cat. So after 4 days at our house, she seemed to understand we were her forever home and she started to come out of her shell and her quirky, adorable personality began to shine through because she knew we were her family.

I could go on forever about all the ways Bailey inspired me to help myself. We assumed she’d be a tired old dog when we first brought her home, but she was so full of life that she made me want to be full of life, too. She was my inspiration when I had grown wary I’d never find any, and I’ll cherish her memory and everything I learned from her forever

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