I tried three times to give him away. Well, one time I didn’t try to give him away: I tried to sell him.

He’d flown from Alabama in the underbelly of a plane. When I was able to pick him up at SFO two hours after his flight had landed, I heard him before I saw him. I could barely see into the crate, but I saw enough to know it was him. I signed the paperwork and carried his crate and put it and myself into the back of my van. I shut the back door, Facetimed my daughter, said, “Okay, baby Nash, welcome to your new life.” He walked right out of that shitted in crate and I filmed it all. My daughter sounded so happy. I was so happy.

He was so small. So beautiful. So scared.

A miracle had happend. I’d gotten the dog of my dreams: a toy version of the full-size Aussie I’d had as a kid. I sat in the back of the van with him until he seemed a tiny bit calmer, and then I told my daughter I’d call her later and tell her how things were going, and I put a harness and leash on Nash and together we exited the van and walked the perimeter of the parking lot so he could pee and walk.

I forgot to mention it was raining. It was a short walk.

On the drive home, he rested his head on the hand I had flat on the edge of his seat and slept.

My heart.

This dog had just been in a crate for probably over ten hours.

He hasn’t been in a crate since.

I have a friend I met at the dog park, and he has a shiny-coated mini Collie. My friend adores my dog. He says, “My dog is pretty, but yours is a supermodel.”

He’s right. It’s nothing I did, so I don’t think it’s bragging to say my dog is a supermodel even though this is the first time I’ve said it—maybe it’s not bragging, but it sounds asshole-ish to me, but I am telling you to get an idea of what I tried to give away and sell: beauty. And sweetness. And intelligence.

And love.

The first time was after I’d been working with a trainer. I remembered how much I hated trying to impose my will on another, and so I texted my trainer and asked if she wanted him. I was afraid he was going to run into the road because I liked to let him run free on the property. She wrote back that I could give him to the animal rescue, but to think about. The truth is, I was afraid of myself. I was worriedt I was the sort of person who would spend $2,000 on a dog and then let him run around free. i was worried because putting a collar on him and only having him outside on a leash sounded so terrible. I would rather risk losing him than for him not to experience what it is like to be free, to be a creature not connected to another body by force.

The suggestion that I drop him off at a shelter jolted me awake. What was I doing?

I want to talk about his eyes. Just writing that sentence makes my face bunch up and the tears to start. His eyes are dark, but there is a light, light blue that edges the circle of darkness like someone had spilled paint. HIs eyes were what drew me to him online. They said, “Help.”

The second time I tried to give him away was when I decided to move to Boston, I thought about living in the city, in an apartment. I thought about how he (Did I mention I changed his name from Nash to Bird? I couldn’t say Nash without feeling I was trying to have a southern accent, and I also wanted him to be all mine. If you have noticed the under story you’ll know there is more going on here than meets the eye, but it’s also totally fine if you have no idea what’s under the story I am telling.) barks when I leave him alone in the house. I thought about not being able to open the door and just let him run around the apple orchard, and so I looked for a family that lived close to the beach he so loves and on a property where he could be free. I thought about my being free again, also. Twice a day I took him to the dog park. Several times a week I’d drive us to the beach so he could run and play. He took up a lot of mental and physical space in my world. Was it even worth it? To love something that eventually would die?

I liked the idea of being free. I found the perfect family. They lived on the coast. They already had a toy Aussie. They would drive up to meet him and see if our dogs got along, and then they would write me a check and drive him so Santa Barbara where they lived.

He was going to live in heaven.

I wondered if he’d be okay. I was his third home.

I called the Santa Barbara people and said I could not do it.

The next time, my friend who told me Bird was a super model took Bird for the weekend to see if he and his dog would make Bird happy. We’d see what it was like for Bird to live with them; we’d see how he was without me.

My friend lasted one night. “Two dogs are different from one,” he said. “I love Bird so so much, but it ends up being chaotic with both of them in the house.” I had lived the life of a free person that one night and day. I’d gone to the beach by myself and felt like a body with no heart. I didn’t do any of the things I thought I might do if I didn’t always have a dog with me—instead of always having another’s well-being in mind, I mostly just had mine.

What’s the sound of one hand clapping?

When my friend dropped off Bird, Bird ran into the house and refused to look at me for 12 hours. After that, something happened. I looked into his eyes and the space between us turned into the energy of connection. It wasn’t something that just happened. I felt the impulse to merge, but I also felt the impulse to pull up the drawbridge. This time I decided to act as if I were fearless, honest. I let him in, and, it seems, he let me in, too. He used to always sleep at the foot of the bed, far from me, but he sleeps now pressed against me, and I smell his paws, his thick coat, and I tell myself to focus on him while he is here and to worry about him disappearing when it actually happens. I tell myself it’s okay for a body to need my body, and for my body to need theirs.

I told myself it’s okay to love.

He’s coming to Boston with me. Baby steps.

I’ll figure it out.

I love him. I will always keep him. I think he feels this. He seems more at ease these days. He sleeps more, sings when I am on the toilet.