On Sunday, I was reunited with Dexter.

As I cuddled with him in a hotel in Kansas City after we spent a month apart, I didn’t cry my eyes out, but there were tears.

Plural.

For those who don’t truly love animals, you won’t understand.

For those who don’t understand true loneliness, you won’t understand.

In 2014, I had never been so lonely in my entire life. By summer, I was living in a studio apartment in Arizona with no real friends. I would get off work, go home and drink myself to sleep.

I was a prisoner of my self-inflicted pit of despair.

*

The Humane Society of Yuma had posted pictures on Facebook. There were plenty of Chihuahuas, but I was callously not interested.

But there was one dog.

Sir Fredrick.

He was perfect.

When I finally moved into a one-bedroom without carpet, one of the first things I did – I wasn’t totally settled in yet – was visit the Humane Society.

“Yeah, I saw on Facebook you had a dog advertised. His name is Sir Fredrick.”

The girl behind the counter typed into the computer.

“I’m sorry, but Sir Fredrick was already picked out by somebody else. But you’re more than welcome to look at the dogs in the kennels.”

I walked down Kennel A.

Pit bulls. Retrievers. Terriers.

They were all crying out for help.

I walked down Kennel B.

Mastiffs. Chihuahuas. Pointers.

They were all crying out for help.

At one kennel, I noticed a tiny little guy. He had the face of a beagle and the body of a dachshund. I looked at his sheet. His name was Duke.

I put my index and middle fingers through the cage – low enough that the little guy could reach it. He came over, ears wrapped tightly behind his head, and softly licked my fingers. He was as sweet as sugar.

This was the one.

I walked out of the kennels, ready to go to the front counter to buy him on the spot, but I had to compose myself. I was crying. It was all too much. There were too many dogs that I couldn’t help. The older ones – who seemed to know their fate enough to not even bother to come toward the chain-link door – broke my heart the most.

Other people came and went. I stood off between buildings and wiped away tears with the sleeve of my shirt.

After composing myself, I went to buy him.

But I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t have food. I didn’t have a collar. I didn’t have a leash.

After placing a hold on him long enough to go to PetSmart and back, I called my mom.

“Hey mom.”

“Hey Jess, what’s going on?”

“Well, I went to the Humane Society and I found this dog. I’m kind of short on money, but – excuse my language – I’m buying this f—ing dog.”

She understood. More on that later.

With my hands shaking with excitement, and a little more money in my bank account because of my mom, I bought everything I needed. A collar that was way too big. A small green flannel bed. A tag. A rawhide. A bag of food.

Everything.

I sped back to the Humane Society – rolling through stop signs – to get him. They brought him out and I crouched down after giving them my debit card. As she processed the information, he was jumped on me – licking me viciously.

I was no longer lonely.

Dexter didn’t create my love of dogs. I have always loved animals. It was born into me.

*

My grandmother, in her prime, loved the nightlife. She was a regular at the Flower Drum, a bar in Southeast Portland that later became a country western bar called Dukes. She would down scotch and have a wonderful time.

But there was a causality in her nightlife.

My mother.

My mom’s father, my grandfather by birth, had died years earlier. He was in a car accident and wasn’t wearing his seatbelt. He went through the windshield and died after nine months on life support when my mom was four.

I never saw that wild side of my grandma. Well before I was born, my Nana married a Navy-man-turned-trucker named Pete.

But in my grandmother’s wild days, my mom was by herself in a lonely apartment. When she was in fifth grade, she got a dog. Her name was Sam and she was a miniature schnauzer. While my grandma was out at the bars, my mom was home with Sam.

When my mom would hear strange noises, scared to death it was a possible intruder, she had Sam bark – an attempt to scare off what was likely an imaginary villain on the other side of the door. She would dress Sam up in clothes. She would talk to her. Wherever my mom went, Sam went, too – even sitting in the front basket of my mom’s bicycle.

On those loneliest of nights, there was only Sam for my mother.

On those loneliest of nights, there was only Dexter for me.

*

This is a story about a dog, but it isn’t.

It’s about finding light at the end of a tunnel. It’s about finding a life preserver as you feel like you’re drowning in an ocean.

There have been plenty of nights – more than I can count ­– driving home from work and all I can think about is getting home to take Dexter for a walk.

At least I have something.

When I’m away from him for a month and a half, I’m going to get emotional. When you have somebody – or some dog – to look forward to, there is an emotional connection.

I know that it’s crazy – being alone with an animal that doesn’t speak English and I can’t help but talk to him. But it helps. It feels good.

There will be other dogs in my life. It’s inevitable. I’ll have a family. But there will be only one dog that I have when I’ve been at my loneliest.

*

I woke up on a Saturday in my new, but too empty, house in Illinois.

The original plan was for me to fly back to Arizona on March 16, pick up Dexter from my old roommate and fly back. But due to temperature restrictions – it was too cold in Illinois ­– that plan would have to wait until April.

Then my mom called.

She could fly into San Diego, drive to Arizona and pick up Dexter and some of my stuff and meet me in Kansas City.

Well, s–t. Yeah, let’s do that.

So as my mom drove through Texas with Dexter sitting shotgun, I was speeding through Iowa. She would end up Saturday in Lincoln, Kansas, I thought – three hours west of Kansas City. Midway through my drive, I called her and left a voicemail. I would drive even further west and meet them in Lincoln that night. For two hours, my heart raced. Then she called me back.

It wasn’t Lincoln, Kansas.

It was Liberal, Kansas – seven hours from Kansas City.

I would have to wait one more day.

In the morning, I sped to the hotel we would meet at – the same hotel I wrote all of this on two pages of computer paper and an Olive Garden breadsticks bag. She would be there at noon.

I got there at 11:30.

I sat on a ledge of the hotel’s sign for thirty minutes.

Waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Finally, they pulled up. Later in the day, after the three of us walked in downtown Kansas City for hours, it was time for my mom to catch her flight back to Portland. We all went for one final walk. At the end, I hugged her. I told her I loved her. I told her thank you for doing it – driving thousands of miles from San Diego to Kansas City – mainly to get Dexter back to me.

She hugged me back.

“You’re lucky that I understand.”