In 2012 I wrote a journal entry about how I was trying to write a book about my relationship with my dog Bunker. I did not want to trivialize our relationship or anthropomorphize him. I didn’t want to write a basic dog-love story, because that’s not what happened. The truth is, when I was suicidal, the only hopeful thing I could think to do was find a dog. Somehow I knew that as much as people around me might not understand, finding the right dog could help save my life, help me learn to live again, help me learn to identify good, healthy love. I was right. All of that did slowly happen, and I am forever grateful.
About five years after Bunker’s death, when I could finally think about him without crying, I set out to write our story. Below is the journal entry from when I was in the depths of book-writing, when the task of capturing our relationship with words felt like climbing four Mount Everests with no oxygen. One week from tomorrow that book will be out in the world and the gift of our extraordinary relationship will continue to sustain and fulfill me.
Thank you, Bunker. I did my best. I miss you every day. I love you, buddy.