A tribute to those who keep the Pyjama Smokers sane.

Hello all,

I think it's beyond time to pay a little tribute to the companions who keep us from killing ourselves (yet sometimes push us close) - our pets.

I say that in jest, but when I say that my dog saved my life, I *actually* mean it. When I first started having mental health difficulties, I lived with something called "agoraphobia". In other words, leaving my apartment would send me into a full-blown panic attack. I would drive to a grocery store (for some reason I felt safe in the car), run in and grab things off shelves like a madwoman then stand in line, feeling the panic set in. A few times I wouldn't make it - I like to call that "drop my basket and run". Sometimes I would make it out with produce, but just barely. I would walk outside, get in the car, and deal with my panic, at least knowing that I could make food for the next few days.

Interestingly enough, when I had a nervous breakdown I liked to refer to it as the time I "dropped my basket". The grocery store debacles only made that even more true to the phrase.

How did I cope? Just that. I coped. Every day was a struggle, and eventually it got easier. Needless to say, despite the bad depression, I don't miss the agoraphobic days.

One thing about having a dog, you may notice, is that they require daily bathroom breaks. This means leaving the apartment. Every day, no matter how incapable I felt, no matter how much I wanted to give up, my dog had to pee. And fuck it if I was going to let my problems affect the creature I love most in this world. That's how I began to challenge myself and my fears. Some days, when I was feeling more bold, I would go more than a block. Some days, I could only cross the road. Regardless, twice a day I had to challenge myself, because of my dog. I can't imagine what I would have done without her - probably far less and for far longer of a period of time.

It's not just the anxiety. My dog is everything to me, because she is the ultimate in unconditional love and affection. Don't get me wrong, she's a stubborn bitch and she drives me nuts. But all that is forgotten when she is being loving and adorable. This happens in particular during the night, which is when I have nightmares. The best thing about her is that when I wake up in the middle of the night, panicking and sweating, she's conked out on her puppilepsy meds (she has epilepsy) and completely pliable to me.

My favourite thing to do when I'm in bed and feeling lonely, is to pull her up beside me, bury my face in her teddy bear fur, stroke her little velvet triangle ears, and fall back aslee

p. She is like a security blanket, multiplied by 100 in comfort factor.

Weird aside - her ears smell like honey and her toes smell like fresh baked bread, and I can-NOT get enough of either.

Yes yes, we do have nights where she sleeps on my face, or sticks her bum in my face and silently (or not so silently) farts her way through the night. She snores like a trucker but through the years and with the help of earplugs I've begun to sleep through it. She has her lovely doggy dreams where her feet twitch and she squeak barks to the dream-dogs she's playing with (ironic, since she gets along with no dogs in real life). But you know it's love when you can write

about the annoyances with endearment (or is that - ENDUREment.)

Last but not least, she puts her ego aside when she senses I am truly sad, or truly sick. Without a whine or a pout, she curls up on my hip in her favourite place, settles, and lets me cry and hold her for as long as I need. Something about her knows that sometimes I really just need her to be there for me.

There's an old alcoholic/AA saying that once you are in recovery, you keep a plant. If you can keep the plant alive, you get a pet. If you can care for the pet and the plant, you can start a relationship. I may not be able to keep plants or relationships alive, but I have nothing but confidence in my ability to give my lovely pup the best life possible. After all, she's done the same for me.