Every week I go to the local farmers market and buy a sausage on a stick. The sausage is not for me. It’s a weekly treat for my dog. I always get looks when I’m pulling off pieces and making sure their cool enough and giving them to my canine companion. The most frequent comment to this is that I spoil him, what a spoiled dog or some variation. Usually it’s playful teasing and it doesn’t bother me.
But it diminishes the importance of what’s really going on. Taking care of my furry friend brings me joy. Seeing his happiness and excitement when we walk up to the booth makes me smile even thinking back on it.
There was a time when he was the only reason I got myself out of bed in the morning. Walking, feeding, brushing and all the other care that he needed became my only purpose. Days when I wanted to end it all he was at my side reminding me that he would miss me.
That sausage, the toys, the spoiling all feel like the least I can to do to give back to him. They are how I thank him for keeping me present. That sausage represents a hell of a lot more than a spoiled dog.
This story has been adapted and republished to Medium.
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