The Animals in My Life

I am one of the lucky ones who has always had good people around me. Still, there have been times when I have needed very special friendships. I’ve had those too.

As a child, I was not cool, not exciting, and certainly not interesting. Quite the opposite. I was probably a child who was easy to overlook, forget—or tease.

I wanted a dog. I didn’t get one, but most afternoons I would ring the doorbell at the neighbour’s house and ask to take their dog, Quincy, for a walk. He was a beautiful Shetland Sheepdog. Those walks became important to me, though I didn’t dare believe they meant anything to him too.

One day, the family who owned Quincy got visitors. They would stay for a week or so. My mother gave me strict instructions not to ask about walking the dog in the days to come. The children who were visiting would probably take care of Quincy themselves. I did as I was told. But then—just a few days later—Quincy suddenly stood in our yard, barking.

Happily, I understood that he missed me. Now he was the one who had come to fetch me.

How special I felt then. How lucky.

As a teenager, I had a beautiful young Arabian horse on loan. He was silly, springy, and far too energetic. He would eat bandages and equipment, and step on his own legs. Others went home with ribbons, one after another. We didn’t have any of those. But we had something else.

Because the moment I set foot in the stable, the horse neighed so loudly it echoed. A high, happy neigh. When I fetched him from the pasture or paddock, he would gallop towards me to greet me. His dark eyes were full of mischief, but above all of devotion. Sometimes, when I came into his stall, he was lying down. He didn’t get up, but laid his head in my lap. All these beautiful moments— how rich I was!

All that affection was worth every buck and every fall. He made me feel completely special. To me, he was worth more than any expensive competition horse.

All the wonderful cats I have had. Cats who were shy, mistreated, and hid under the sofa for days. We became friends, and such friendships become so intense. Misti, who always slept on my pillow when I was a child. Sif, who died ten years ago, probably thought she was human herself. We bottle-fed her after her mother died. She was always so intensely present, wherever we were. When she died, the house became terribly empty. We still miss her.

Mitsu, our three-legged cat who loved to be outside, lay close to me for an entire week when I had pneumonia and couldn’t do anything but lie there. She took care of me, guarded me with her precious presence.

When I was 17, I lived in the US for a while. It was a difficult time for me. I struggled with depression, eating disorders and anxiety. Some nights I slept, but most I didn’t. It became impossible to talk about it. I lost the will to live, but outwardly I was cheerful and seemingly social.

One day I discovered that the family I lived with had a dog. She stood alone in a run behind the house. Overweight, but very happy. I took her for walks. Together with the black Labrador, I dared to walk alone into the woods behind the house. Often we walked for hours—walks that became good medicine.

Once I fell asleep from exhaustion while we were out, but when I woke up, she was standing there, keeping watch.

In this time, when everything felt dark and hopeless, and I felt endlessly alone, I got a new best friend in the ever-cheerful and endlessly loyal Labrador, Winnie. Instead of looking far ahead at impossible goals—all the things I couldn’t manage—the dog made me think about the next day, the next walk, the joy of being together without words.

At the neighbouring farm there were horses. One day I dared to take the neighbour at their word and came to visit. I got to ride and be in the stable. The radio was always on. A pleasant stream of country music flowed into the warm autumn air. The horses chewed, their coats were brushed. We rode out into the forest, and we looked at the trees, the thickets, and the birds. We had to concentrate to find the right path down the steep slopes. It was nice to feel the horse’s soft movements.

Sometimes I lay awake at night, full of anxiety and darkness. Then I remembered the horses on the other side of the fence and my good friend Winnie. I focused intensely on the next day—on being able to walk in the forest with the dog, or go to the stable. Maybe brush the horses. Maybe go for a ride.

All the big things—what I would become, what other people thought of me, how I would manage—became less important. One day I even managed to ask for help. Much of the reason I was able to do that was because of what the dog showed me. Everything she said without words. That the simple, good things—the things I truly loved—were still within reach. The moments could still be mine. The friendships I could have just by giving a little of my time and some kind words.

Love and devotion can come in so many forms. Much of the joy of being with animals is that they ask for so little.

But sometimes what we get in return can mean everything.