There was some evidence that all was not totally well with Mr. Darcy, though. He was scary-thin but didn't really want to eat much, and he was absolutely terrified of the crate. I mean terrified. His previous owners said he loved his crate, but they lied. I tried everything. I petted him. I gave him peanut butter. I put bits of chicken in the crate. All to no avail. Finally, I just put him in there. I felt like a terrible person, but what could I do? He didn't sleep at night--he just walked in tiny circles in the crate all night long. This was clearly an anxious dog. When I left the next day, I put him in the crate, left the radio on, and hoped for the best. I came home, 5 hours later, to a nasty note on the door from the neighbors saying he barked nonstop all morning, a crate full of diarrhea, and a totally freaked out dog. I took him for a walk and started crying. I ended up at the vet's office adjacent to my apartment complex and asked for advice. I thought maybe he was sick or something. They checked him out, diagnosed him with severe separation anxiety, and gave me Xanax for him. By this point, I was the one who needed the Xanax. The vet said that rehabilitating him could take quite a while, which was concerning, to say the least. I was an absolute wreck.
I got home and took a shower. The moment I disappeared behind the shower curtain, Darcy flipped out. As long as I was in eyesight, he was fine, but if he couldn't see me he couldn't handle it. I was trying desperately to figure out how I was going to take care of a dog that barked constantly every time I left his sight AND get a PhD. I had to leave for two hours for Bible study, so I gave Darcy some cheese with a side of Xanax and my roommate and I decided to blockade him in the kitchen. We thought maybe it was the crate that was causing him to flip his shit.
We were wrong. He flipped out anyway, which resulted in another complaint from the neighbor and more tears from me. I consulted a behavioral therapist, and called the shelter. Everyone agreed (the shelter even suggested) that I bring him back. The amount of time it would take was simply much longer than my neighbors would tolerate, and I couldn't risk getting in trouble with the apartment complex. I felt like a terrible human being, but keeping him would just not be best for him or me. I hope they found him a home with a shut-in senior citizen. He's a good dog and I think he's had a tough life.
But that (as long as it is) is just the background to my real point. When I went to Bible study, I was a mess. I cried through the first half. Over a dog. I haven't done my exams, my dating life is one frustration after another, and I have no idea what I'm doing with my life. But I lost it over a dog I hadn't even had for 72 hours. My community group drew in around me and that was when I sensed God drawing near. They asked if they could pray for me. I told them I felt a little ridiculous, but okay. What followed was a deep, sincere appreciation of me and the role I take in their lives and in our group as they gathered close, placed warm hands on my shoulders, and prayed just for me. I cried again, but this time because, for the first time all day (and in a long time, if I'm being truthful), I didn't have to shoulder everything. The thought occurred to me, in that moment, that this is one of the things I hate most about being single. I do everything myself--there's no one to help me "carry the load." It's exhausting.
I don't often get overly metaphysical about my faith, but in that moment I felt the presence of God and the love of both Himself and His people so keenly it was almost tangible. As I seek God, I find Him--sometimes through the most mundane circumstances, and often through His people. Sometimes I don't even consciously realize I'm seeking Him, and still He seeks me out.
