How saving a teeny life saved Jenny Block
Whenever I watch an apocalypse-themed movie, I always wonder, “What character would I be?” Would I be the one who almost immediately jumps in the river and ends it all? Would I be the one to organize the community against the zombies/the aliens/the government? Would I be the one to hide all of the children from danger in a cave while secretly teaching them the combat moves no one knew I had? Would I be the one sobbing uncontrollably, unable to save myself let alone anyone else?
I had hoped I would never find out. But I have.
OK, OK. It’s not the apocalypse exactly. But life as we once knew it has definitely come to a halt for the time being. And I learned I’m not any of those things. As it turns out, I’m the one who adopts a puppy.
Yup. It’s true. I adopted a chiweenie from the SPCA of Polk County. She was one of three in a litter that was living under a house after their mother had been shot by God-knows-who. I had read about shelters being overcrowded and looking for people to foster or adopt, so I went online to check out our local shelter. And there she was.
My wife said no at first. “Not what we need right now,” she said. Besides, she wanted a bigger dog — a doodle to be exact. But my tear-filled eyes changed her mind. That’s the thing about my wife: She knows the difference between when I just think I want something and when I need something. Turns out I needed this puppy, and, despite her grim start in life, I may have needed her even more than she needed me.
Two weeks into quarantine, I was feeling lost. I do volunteer work, traveling all over the U.S. picking up and delivering bone marrow for Be The Match. But my wife feels too nervous about my traveling now, so I’m grounded for the time being. And I was spiraling. I was taking walks. I was doing Facebook Live and IGTV videos to help others get through this. I was doing my best to do the things I know how to do to cope. But nothing was working, and I was sinking.
One thing I know about myself is that I spend a lot of time in my head. That’s a really good thing when it comes to writing. Often, I think about a piece of writing so much that, by the time I get to writing, the words all but fall onto the page. But when it comes to life, being someone who is in her head a lot can mean being outside of the moment a lot, too.
I work hard to be present, to stay in my body, in the moment, in the world as it is at any given second. And with my daughter sheltering at her dad’s four hours from me, and our supposed leader flailing and failing more than ever, and with the death toll rising, my head began to spin in a way I had never before experienced. In a way, I was so out of control that
I feared I might never return to center.
I had to do something, and the universe nudged me and pointed to a teeny puppy. And, as usual, the universe was right.
There is nothing like a puppy to keep you in the moment every moment.
The puppies were dumped at the SPCA on Thursday, March 26. I made an appointment that day to go to meet them the very next morning at 9. On the way, I received an email saying the puppies were too sick to be adopted and to hold off coming. But for some reason, I kept driving. I called when I arrived, and they let me in. The three puppies were dehydrated and lethargic and skinny as could be. I had put down a deposit on one of them the night before, the one they called Libby. As she looked up at me, I swear her eyes pleaded with me to save her.
They allowed me to take Libby (soon renamed Aurora) straight to the vet, who basically told me that she would either be fine, or she wouldn’t. Only time would tell. Suddenly it wasn’t about the next day or the next week or the next month. It was about the next minute.
I cried all the way home and into the night as I fell asleep, wondering if she would even be alive in the morning.
And she was. She ate and drank and snuggled in my arms, and I took care of her every minute, which turned into another minute, which turned into another day. And just like that,
I was living again. I was cooking again and smiling again, and the spinning stopped, and the being in the moment began again. And we went back to the vet two weeks after I adopted her, and her weight had doubled and her eyes were bright and the vet looked up at me and said, “Good job, Mommy.”
My eyes filled with tears again. This time it wasn’t because I was afraid she wasn’t going to survive, but instead because I knew I would.
— Jenny Block
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