Yesterday marked Link’s three-month anniversary with me. In the rescue world, that’s considered a major milestone. It’s part of what’s commonly known as the “3-3-3 Rule”. The idea that around the three-month mark, the initial decompression and routine-learning phases begin to settle, and a rescue dog’s true personality finally starts to emerge alongside a deeper sense of trust and connection.

What I find interesting is that the 3-3-3 Rule focuses almost entirely on the dog, their milestones, their adjustment, their transformation. But what about mine?

The last three months have been life-changing for me in ways I didn’t expect. They’ve been challenging, fulfilling, exhausting, rewarding. Honestly, every emotion possible. I’ve always believed that the things placed in front of us are there to test something deeper within us: our patience, our compassion, our ability to grow. Some people get bigger challenges than others, but I think there is always something we are meant to learn from them.

The path to getting Link felt easy from the start. It felt right. Because of that, I knew that whatever challenges came with him were challenges I was supposed to face. Shit in the office at 3 a.m.? Clearly a lesson. A paw to the poonanie? Another lesson.

At its core, I think this experience has been teaching me how to communicate and connect more deeply. Not just with an animal, but with people too.

Dogs are actually much simpler than humans in many ways. Yes, they can’t speak to us with words, but their needs and emotions are usually honest and uncomplicated. Humans, on the other hand, often give us a false sense of comfort simply because we speak the same language. But do we really understand each other?

When I miscommunicate with my dog, I can usually trace it back with enough patience and reflection. I can see where I missed a signal, failed to guide clearly, or misunderstood what he needed. Miscommunication with humans can spiral into resentment, distance, or even lifelong conflict.

At least with dogs, the consequences of misunderstanding are usually temporary. A nip to the butt, a puddle in the corner, or a very humbling 3 a.m. cleanup.

So thank you, Link, for teaching me how to be more connected. Not just with you, but with the world around me. Thank you for teaching me patience, presence, and the importance of truly trying to understand another living being instead of simply assuming understanding exists.

I look forward to whatever lessons you have left to teach me. Although, if I could ask for one small favour, maybe let the next lessons involve a little less poop in the house. I think I’ve learned enough from that chapter already.

Five years ago today, I spent the day mourning the loss of my friend, Alec Lisko.

It still hurts — maybe a little less, or maybe just differently — that you’re not here with us.

Until we meet again, my dear friend.

And whether by kismet or something else entirely, today we also bring home our new pup, Link.

This morning on the subway platform, I overheard a woman speaking with muffled glee about her health issues, her bad knees, her nerve pinched back. There was something almost celebratory in the way she described the slow breaking down of her body, as though it were an achievement or a badge earned.

I’ve never quite understood why we recount our ailments at such length, sometimes with a tone that borders on pride. Is it the attention that comes with being unwell? Is there a link between a physically distant society and a quiet hunger for affection? Do we seek connection by soliciting empathy. 

Or perhaps the two aren’t related at all. Maybe the deterioration of the body is simply disorienting. We are prescribed medications, given instructions, told to wait. And in the waiting, perhaps the deeper question lingers beneath it all: Why am I not getting better?

Tomorrow is Monday. The bane of my existence. I dread the start of the week. My brain goes into overdrive, imagining all the different arguments I could possibly have, none of which ever come to fruition. I hate my job so much more on the weekend. My guess is that I’ve tasted freedom and am reminded of what I have to go back to.

But then I have to ask myself: is it really that bad? I’m safe. I work with relatively sane people who are friendly and nice. What greener grass am I even looking for? I don’t know what pasture I’m imagining. Somewhere in my head, I’ve created a place I don’t even know exists. One I can’t fully picture or understand at this point. And yet, my hatred has clearly found it and is trying to coax me toward it, sight unseen.

Is that what emotions try to do to you? Coax you, sight unseen, toward places they insist you should go, without offering any explanation of what those places actually are?

Well, I am tired.

Night night.

Written on January 13, 2020 @ 12:06 am 

Written on March 5, 2020 

Soooooo many thoughts. Right now, I can’t seem to pin one down. There’s this vague, hovering guilt… though honestly, how does one presume guilt?

Anyway. Subject change.

I saw this girl on the subway. Maybe 23, attractive, seemed like she had her life together. And then… it happened. She jams her finger in her nose. Not slyly, not delicately. She’s full-on, hook-and-dive, searching for lost change. I could have handled that. Really, I could.

But then she pulled it out and ate it. Multiple times. Subway, rush hour, coronavirus still lurking. Chaos.

I even did a quick scan. Everyone else? Totally unbothered. Like, this is normal life now.

When you’re weighing nose pickers versus toe clippers, at least the boogers aren’t flying at you like projectiles. Small blessings.

Writer’s note: I have so many jotted notes from my subway observations when I was challenging myself just to watch. I can’t imagine what my guilt was about, but at the time it felt heavy and distressing. Not heavy enough, though, to miss the nose picker. 

What do I truly owe myself?
Why do I keep torturing my own spirit,
choosing to exist in mediocrity
when I know I am capable of more?

I want more.
And yet, each step feels like another trial,
another demand to prove why my ideas matter.
The effort is draining — a slow erosion of my light.

Some days it feels as if I’m living in a simulation,
caught between realities.
The dissonance is real.
I don’t always know whether what I feel
is a soul-level truth
or simply the residue of being trapped
too long inside a system that dulls me.

I am weary.
The distance between soul and ego yawns wide,
and here I stand, suspended in the gap,
searching for clarity.