Don't Cry

I am six years old, and I am terrified.

Even then I knew it was irrational, knew that there was no real danger, no reason to be upset. But I couldn't stop it. I couldn't stop crying, couldn't stop being scared. It would be nearly a decade before anyone explained to me what a panic attack is--all I knew then was that everything was too much, and I was alone.

I am alone in the guest room of my grandparents' apartment, and I am crying in bed. There are monsters everywhere, and it doesn't matter how many times the grown-ups tell me that they aren't real; even if they are only there when I close my eyes, they will not let me sleep.

I can hear my grandparents in the next room. They are tired after a day of play, and they are turning to their own bed. Casey, their yellow lab, should be asleep on the couch by now.

I want someone to hold my hand. I want someone to stroke my back and tell me everything is alright. I want my mother to sit with me until sleep drives the monsters away.

I can't blame the adults around me for not knowing what to do. It had been months of this, of the creatures that my mind created terrorizing me so badly that I could not bare to be left alone in a room for longer than a moment. Nothing helped--no songs, no toys, no blanket or counting game. If I could not hear a heartbeat outside my own head, I was lost.

There is something at the door. I go still, listening. There is a light scratch, then a creak as the door slides open. For the briefest moment, I wonder if I am right to be afraid.

But then there is a weight on the bed, a panting breath on my cheek as Casey presses her nose to my face and licks away the tears. She has always been an affectionate dog, and I hug her tightly around the neck as the sobs begin to fade. She stretches out beside me, placing herself between me and the rest of the world. She whines softly as I continue to sniffle, and occasionally stretches her head up to nose at my cheek or lick my ear. It tickles, and I cannot help but give a watery giggle.

She stays all night, still sprawled beside me when I open my eyes the next morning. I thank her, scratching her ears and stroking her back. She blinks at me placidly and gives a slow wag of her tail.

Even two decades later, I think she was saying, "Good morning. I'm glad you're better."

Me too, Casey.

She is very protective of me after that. Not always in an obvious way, not in a way that draws attention--but I see her ears perk up when my voice rises in anxiety. I feel her lean against my legs when they start to jitter on the couch. And every night I spend in my grandparents' apartment, she spends with me, always a bulwark between my body and the edge of the bed, a shield against the monsters and the dark. She always waits for me to settle first, then presses her nose to the closest part of me with a few gentle wages of the tail.

"I'm here. Don't cry."

A Note of Thanks:

Casey was my first understanding of what an emotional support animal could be, even if I didn't have the words to describe her that way at the time. I hope I've captured her generosity of spirit, though time has made some of the details hazy. In a world full of very good dogs, she will always hold a place in my heart as one of the best.

Miss you, girlie. Thank you for making sure I wasn't alone.