I’ve been in a dark place for a few weeks. I have pressured and encouraged and pleased my family to consider rehoming our animals.
I have always owned animals. I have never rehomed one. I finish what I start. I don’t quit things. I barely even admit when things are hard. To consider what I’ve considered with my pets certainly feels like failure.
But. I reserve the right to change my mind, change course, change things up if my mental health requires it. I don’t move houses every year, or change jobs, or change churches (too much). I haven’t shaved my head or gotten a face tattoo or fled the country. I am okay. Except that I’m not.
Life in Alaska is different. Our house is cozy, but quite smaller than we are used to. The weather is much more intense than we are used to. There are challenges to owning animals here that we are not used to – cleaning and crating and boarding and training and feeding and watering.
We selected the perfect breed of dog for the elements here, but she is designed for work and a pack and land… all of which we offer in a different way than that for which she was bred.
We took home a cat, sort of on a whim and sort of not, without figuring out how he’d fit into our home logistics-wise. Then there was the second cat that made her way in while I was out of town. And now there is a lot of sneezing where there wasn’t before, and tape on houseplants to prevent them from becoming litter boxes, and I just can’t take it.
I cannot rehome my husband, or my kids, or my responsibilities at work, or my health and well-being. The animals, sweet as they are, fall below the line.
We have already placed the lady cat with a local community member who was in the market. The report is that both parties are happily in love. The big black cat, or Fat Daddy, will stick around while we wait for the right family to come along.
Today, Jolene goes to check out a farm about forty miles north of us. If it’s a good fit, we’ll leave her with them today. The family recently lost a female from their pack and is looking for a gal to make them whole again. They have a whole lot of livestock guardian dog knowledge and love to give Jo. They said we can visit and they’ll bring her down when they come to fish in the summer; an open adoption, they said. It made me feel only slightly less ashamed and sad.
The right thing is often the hard thing, but when you’re not even sure if it’s the right thing, it’s even harder.
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