I have deduced that every emotional support animal needs an emotional support person.
When I was eighteen, my great grandmother went into assisted living. She had a chihuahua named Charlie. She could not take him with her, so she held interviews. No one was worthy. “Meme” called my mom. She explained the situation. Mom told her that if no one claimed him, he could come and live with us. Tears streaming down her face, she agreed. We flew Charlie home from Louisiana to Georgia.
Chihuahuas are “one man” dogs. They choose one person and love that person with all their heart, hating everyone else. We never knew how old he was, but he was feisty! I desperately wanted to be Charlie’s person. He slept with me; I fed him from my hand; it was obvious to him exactly how much I cared. Inevitably, I was Charlie’s “one woman.”
Charlie and I developed a strong bond. When I left for college, he had to stay home. Reappearing after a good bit of time, he behaved as if I had died and come back to him. He was very protective. Charlie made it clear when he did not approve of a boyfriend. He had a least favorite. Once, he peed in his shoe. Another incident occurred when I went for a walk with this boyfriend. We had barely made it across the street when Charlie ran straight through the invisible fence-despite the shock collar-and caught up to us. Needless to say, that walk was over.
In 2013, I was committed to a hospital in Savannah. My absence worried Charlie. I was gone longer than usual. He started to die. A therapist inside the hospital instructed me to sit down and take a Klonopin. With a foreboding tone, she said, “I need to talk to you about Charlie.” Immediately, despite the drugs, I stood; I screamed. I think my heart may have stopped. She told me that Charlie was very sick, and needed a blood transfusion. He had a 3% chance of survival. Then she said that they were going to do something the hospital had never done before.
One of my best friends in that hospital called himself “Prince Jesus.” He formed a circle in the courtyard and we began to pray for Serenity. We prayed for Charlie. We prayed for me.
The therapist opened the back gate to the courtyard and my mom and sister stepped in, carrying a sickly thin Charlie. I gathered him in my arms, wrapped him in my sweatshirt, and held him in my favorite spot, under pink flowers. I cried; I prayed; and he could see that I was alive. We brought hope to each other. Charlie survived the transfusion and lived for three more years! We spent them together.
Toward the end of Charlie’s life, he developed blindness. He could not see Rush, my friend at the time, but he led me to his gallery every day. Charlie knew I was in good hands before he joined the angels. Rush became my boyfriend, and then my husband.
Though Charlie was not a trained emotional support dog, that is what he was for me. I believe I was his emotional support person. We were a team. I am a bit jealous that he is sitting on “Meme’s” lap, while he waits for me.
–SJB