Yesterday marked Roux’s third birthday. It’s been 3 years and 1 day since she was born. And it’s been 2 years, 2 months and 2 days since I picked her up in Amarillo, Texas. Never once during those years and months and days have I regretted sharing my life or my paycheck or my bed with that dog. Not when she was small and demanded so much attention, or when she used to find it acceptable to chew on furniture, or when she used to regularly dislocate my shoulder when she was hot on the tail of a squirrel. Not even when my life was in complete upheaval and I didn’t know where I was going to live and Roux and I were like vagabonds, couch surfing at night and driving to photo shoots during the day. Not even even when finding a place that would allow a dog was a huge pain in the ass. Not even now, when I am reaping the joys of being single and 26, when sometimes having a dog at home means leaving killer parties to feed her and let her out.
Every day for 793 days I have been humbly grateful that Roux is my roommate, officemate, running partner, travel companion, muse — grateful, in short, that this dog is my dog.
