There’s a story my mom tells about me as a little kid. We’re
in Alberta
visiting my grandmother’s sisters when my mom takes me on a walk. Along the way
she points out the unusual black rocks that are only found in this part of the
country, and we start collecting them together and putting them in my shirt, which is held
up like a sling. By the time we get back to the house I have a shirt full.

A little while after showing my grandma our prize, I
disappear. My mom, the aunts and grandmas and cousins can’t find me anywhere.
Then my mom spies me a bit down the road, walking slowly and deliberately. She
asks me what I’m doing.

“I’m putting them back in their houses,” I say.

I’m carefully placing each rock at a distance from the next,
making sure each one goes “home.”

I have always been like this—even now I apologize to doors
when I slam them too hard. (I should be careful here—I’m starting to sound like
a bit of a nutbar in this blog!) So you can imagine how I feel when I go into a
shelter. My heart becomes like the Grinch’s, swelling and springing out of its
little wire frame. I hyperventilate. I can’t take it.

This is one of many dilemmas I face when considering this
dog prospect. Under no circumstance would I buy a puppy from a store, nor would
I approach a breeder (much respect to breeders. My stepmom is one. But I am
aware that there are many, many dogs out there, already born, who need homes). So
at some point or another, when getting a dog becomes a reality, I will have to
set foot into a shelter or rescue home.

Last month, my boyfriend tried to cheer me up on a gloomy
day by “surprising” me with a trip to a shelter. My affliction was unknown to
him. That is, until I started breathing heavily and rocking back and forth.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I. Can’t. Go. In. There.”

I’ve gone once or twice. The heartbreak is too much. Unless
I’m leaving with a pooch or two, I can’t do it. I can’t turn my back on all of
those little faces, even if I know I might be back to take someone home. I’m
not so naïve as to think they’re not just as in need without me looking at them,
but sometimes self-preservation is necessary. After all, they’re not just a
shirt full of rocks.