Harley

My world imploded in a calamitous instant. I curled in on myself in bed, tucking my head between my folded arms. Anything to block out the sight of spinning turquoise walls plastered with posters.

Every inhale exploded into a racketing, choked exhale. Each breath vied for space in my throat, cramming together as they shoved out of my chest and projected from my mouth. I couldn’t catch them.

The tears welled out of my swollen eyes, soaking my eyelashes and making it impossible to keep my eyelids open. So I squeezed them shut, hoping that if I force all the teardrops out at once now, maybe I’ll stop crying sooner. There was that trick I read online somewhere: if you press your tongue against the roof of your mouth, you won’t cry. I tried that. It was far too late.

So I laid there in a fetal ball of sobs and croaked breathing, wiping my tears and sniffing.

I hoped no one else in the house could hear me. I didn’t want comfort or consolation, because I didn’t even know what was wrong. I just felt this way. And I wanted it to stop. But it felt like it never would.

As I rolled over onto my back, stared at the empty ceiling, and closed my eyes, there was a shuffling at my feet.

Movement up the side of the bed, closer to my head. A nudge under my arm.

Harley.

The first dog of my very own. I had only had her for half a year at that point; it felt like we were still getting to know each other. Growing together.

I had learned a few things about Harley in the months we became friends. Namely, she was cuddly. I mean sprawl next your body, lay her head on your face, and drape herself across your legs cuddly. And she was starting to learn I was her person, so then I became the main object of her affections. Maybe we became too attached to each other too fast, always attached at the hip. Sometimes in a legitimate, physical sense.

But I think that attachment saved my life the night the world collapsed.

Because Harley crawled up next to me, licking my face. I pushed her away at first, not wanting to be bothered. It was what she did next. How she gently placed her paws on my torso, pulled herself atop it, and laid down with all her body weight compressing my chest.

I snapped out of the downward spiral, came-to, and breathed.

A real, deep, rejuvenating breath.

It felt as if I was coming back to Earth, coming back into my body and landing in my bed. The walls slowed to a stop, the tears finished their streaming, and Harley was looking at me with bright, round brown eyes. She was so small then, barely a year old. Curled up, she fit completely on top of me. With every one of my breaths, she breathed, and we relaxed together. I felt her mold into my body, mold into my soul.

She stayed there until my breaths were quiet and my face was dry. My hand must’ve stroked over her fur a hundred times.

This was the first time I felt that Harley saved my life, and I realized she was my soulmate, but it wouldn’t be the last.

She’d make a habit of knowing even the subtlest signs of my sadness, anxiety, and the hopelessness that came with those feelings. Even before I knew I was feeling them. She’d be there to restore and represent everything that’s good in this world.

She’s here as I write this, resting her head on my knee and watching my face as I reminisce. And I feel lucky to be alive alongside her.