Why I Don’t Go If My Dog Can’t Come

What looks like devotion is actually survival

After my son Elijah died, it felt like my insides had been scooped out with a melon baller. The world went blurry, sounds became muffled, and the only thing anchoring me to this plane was the warm weight of Lindy, my greyhound. He literally kept my soul from leaving my body. That’s not some sentimental turn of phrase; that’s the visceral truth of my existence in those early days.

It was medical, in the purest sense. My body was betraying me. Grief has a way of hijacking your physiology, and for me, that meant terrifying drops in blood sugar, so profound I’d lose consciousness. It meant grief spirals that sucked me down into a black hole where breathing felt like a forgotten art. It meant moments of such profound numbness that my hands felt like foreign objects, disconnected and cold.

Lindy was my silent sentinel. He didn’t need to be told; he just knew. He’d press his long, lean body against mine during those blood sugar crashes, his warmth a steady reminder of life. In the midst of a grief storm, his gentle nudges and deep sighs were the only anchors I could grasp.

He didn’t ask if I was okay. He didn’t leave to find a more cheerful room. He stayed pressed up against me, a furry, four-legged constant in an ocean of unbearable loss, every single time.

And even when the fog would momentarily lift and I’d manage to venture out, even for the mundane task of grabbing groceries, the anxiety gnawed at me. But knowing Lindy was waiting made the return journey almost… holy. He’d be right there at the door, a sleek, elegant statue of anticipation, and then that tail would start its frantic thumping against the wall, a drumbeat of pure joy.

His eyes, those deep, soulful greyhound eyes, would be wide with relief, and then the zoomies would commence—those glorious bursts of speed and energy, a full-throttle celebration that I’d made it back from what felt like a perilous expedition. He never punished me with distance or aloofness for leaving. He just made the act of coming back feel sacred, like returning to the safest place in the universe.

Then came Gaia, a whirlwind of gentle curiosity, while Lindy was still gracing us with his quiet strength. She watched him with an almost studious intensity, absorbing his every move, every comforting lean, every subtle alert. It was as if she understood the gravity of the job she was being trained for, not through commands, but through observation and empathy.

Now, with Lindy’s spirit watching over us, Gaia is the one who watches my body better than I ever could. She’s an extension of my own awareness, a biological early warning system.

Just last week, for instance, I was engrossed in a project, the familiar pull of hyperfocus threatening to disconnect me from my physical needs. Suddenly, Gaia nudged my hand with her wet nose, a persistent, urgent nudge that cut through the mental clutter. A quick check confirmed it—my blood sugar was plummeting. She does that, senses the subtle shifts in my chemistry even before I register the telltale signs.

She plants her solid, warm body beside me and leans her weight into mine, a physical reminder of gravity, of presence. She interrupts the spiraling thoughts, the feeling of floating away. She reminds me, without a single word, that I’m still here, in my body, in this moment.

So, when an invitation arrives that doesn’t extend to Gaia, it’s more than just a social exclusion. It’s a practical impossibility. If she’s not invited somewhere, the likelihood of me being there drops to almost zero.

Listen, I get it. If someone says no dogs, I genuinely respect that. It’s their home, their space, their rules, and their call. I’m not trying to be difficult or a pain in the ass. I’m not trying to make a statement or force anyone to change their policies.

I just have a profound understanding of what happens to me, physically and mentally, when I navigate the world without her by my side. I don’t show up whole. It’s like trying to function with a vital organ missing.

This isn’t some form of emotional over-dependence in the way some might imagine. It’s a fundamental aspect of my somatic reality. My body and hers are intertwined in a way that allows me to function. To ask me to leave her behind is akin to asking me to go out, enjoy a full meal, and casually leave my insulin at home. It’s a non-starter.

I live with the daily complexities of ADHD, the delicate balancing act of Type 1 Diabetes, and the persistent, low-grade hum of grief that lives in my nervous system like static on an old radio. And this dog—this incredible, intuitive creature—she knows how to hold it all, how to translate the chaotic signals of my body and mind into a sense of grounded safety.

She’s not a pet in the traditional sense. She’s my co-regulator, constantly monitoring and responding to my needs. She’s also my life support, my anchor—providing a kind of stability that no medication alone can achieve.

And yes, I’m aware that in many public places, trained service dogs like Gaia have legal rights to accompany their handlers—rights that are hard-won and essential for many people with disabilities.

But honestly, this isn’t primarily about asserting those rights. It’s not about demanding access or forcing anyone to bend their rules. It’s about a deeply personal understanding of my own needs. It’s about knowing what I require in order to stay upright, to stay safe, and ultimately, to stay here, in this life.

So yeah—if you don’t want her there, I completely respect your decision.
And in turn, I simply ask for your understanding: if Gaia can’t come, neither can I—not out of defiance, but because I know what I need to stay safe, grounded, and here.

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