So here we are, a couple of post-traumatic pals. Both a bit scared and more than a bit scarred. Two beings back from the brink of the abyss.
For me, Vector would be easy enough to love without my troubled history - or, for that matter, without his. As evidenced several times over, Vector exudes a level of cuteness my wife and I call "stranger-stopping." More than a few people - children, couples, even lone, tough-looking grown men - have stopped in their tracks and gushed at the sight of his fawn-colored, floppy-eared, nub-wagging adorability.
And once they stop, Vector has an easy amiability - no doubt accrued over years of street begging - that is assertive without seeming aggressive. Passersby fall for Vector just by briefly patting his head; I have the luxury of cuddling with him on the couch each evening.
But the tighter bond I feel with Vector stems from our common dichotomies. We have both known pain, fear, hopelessness. We have both had the odds stacked severely against us. We have both faced prolonged emergencies that swept us right up to the edge of death. Or, in my case, a lengthy prison sentence.