Adopting a dog was a completely emotional and irresponsible decision. I was living on my own for the first time, working 9-5, and had only ever taken care of a gerbil and a nasty cat, who once scratched me up so badly that the guidance counselor at my elementary school asked if I was having any "problems at home." My mom was the only one who actually fed the cat, paid for the vet bills and cleaned the litter, and I lost the gerbil somewhere in the house (R.I.P Snickers).
When it was finally time to take care of myself, I found an apartment that had the potential to be really cool. It had a good layout, a huge bedroom with a walk-in closet, steps away from the beach, and a nice shared backyard. Plus, an easy move being just a block away from my mom's place. But despite all this, for me it was just depressing. I didn't really appreciate what it could have been, and to me it was just a dark, quiet basement. Besides, when I learned my mother was extremely ill, decor was the last thing I cared about. When it got to the point that I realized she was going to die, I couldn't continue going home to a place so empty and dark. I didn't want a roommate, but wouldn't it still be nice to have something in there that was happy, warm, alive and breathing to greet me when I got in? Cats won't do that. I'm no cat hater but let's be honest, cats don't give a shit about us. I decided to look into this organization that had rescue dogs for adoption, might as well make a good deed out of the situation. I was smitten with this one curly little blonde mutt name Mulligan, but the process was lengthy and extremely thorough. I was interviewed twice, filled out detailed questionnaires, and they had someone stop by my apartment at a random time to ensure it was "dog safe". You'd think I was adopting a child. I was finally approved and ready to take Mulligan when I got a phone call from the rescue center telling me they were very sorry, but there was a mix-up and Mulligan had already been given away.