Something in Common

When I was a kid I was obsessed with princess movies. I wanted the perfect hair, the sprawling castle, and animals to be my best friends who could help with the occasional chore or two. I had every VHS tape, knew every musical number, and even insulted my parents by telling them I was going to change my name to Jasmine as soon as I turned 18.

With this fixation came a secondary condition. I was a moron who believed in pure, unconditional, love at first sight. I dreamed that some day my prince would come, that I had already danced with him once upon a dream, and that we would fly off together into a whole new world. The very definition of a hopeless romantic Pisces.

Shockingly, as I grew and ventured into the dating world, I kissed many more frogs that I’d like to admit (well, not that many), but more than enough to break my illusion that I was destined to find a perfect prince. I was met with commitment issues, abuse, and disappointment.

Then I saw Hugh. His jet black tux was perfectly tailored for his body. He leaned slightly to the left in his profile picture as he smirked for the camera. There was something in his soulful brown eyes that exuded confidence and aloofness. I knew at that moment that I had to meet him.

When I laid eyes on him I knew I was in love, even if our first interaction was far from the fairy tale moment I had been hoping for. He ran up to the woman next to me (my aunt, of all people), and threw himself at her instead. I tried not to take it personally, but being passed over stung. I proceeded to meet a few more guys, but I knew that he was the one. He was the reason I was there.

The adoption specialist brought him back out for us to try again. This time, it was my arms he ran for, and my face that he slobbered with a kiss. Finally, the moment I wanted. My love at first sight.

The first night Hugh was fearful. When I allowed him up onto the bed to lay down, he positioned himself facing me, on the furthest corner of the mattress. He was ready to run at any moment. Over the next week he started to move closer. Then he scared me when his paws grazed my back a few nights later. When he got sick during week two, he slept in my arms.

I remember how unsure he looked the first time he sat next to me on the couch. The way he tensed when I moved my hand up to rub his ears. How frightened he looked if I tried to leave the house without him. I recognized it all. The signs of abuse and memories of abandonment, and I realized something.

We had something in common.

After kissing all those frogs it had been hard for me to start dating again. To start trusting again. I found my boyfriend five months before I adopted Hugh. We started off slow. I was not at all used to the feeling of having my feelings returned and it wigged me out. I envisioned nefarious intentions like those of the villains that had manipulated the princesses I loved so much. Like the men who had manipulated me before. I waited for the “I like you, but…” conversation. I waited for the abuse. Yet even as I waited in anticipation, it never happened. The evil never came out. The cycle never restarted.

Recovering from trauma is never easy. No amount of motivational quotes or reassurance that “it gets better” removes the scars of the actions of the people who were supposed to love us. Those who were supposed to love us, who chose to hurt us instead. Hugh could see things simply. He associated people with hurt, but tempered it with an unparalleled optimism that maybe this time it would be better.

I had no idea that walking into Pinal County Animal Shelter that day would change my life in so many profound ways. No idea that Hugh was the missing piece to the family that I had wanted for so many years. No idea that he was the key to my healing. No idea that two years later I would be sitting on the couch with my love and our two fur children, happy, and unconditionally, in love.