I think my vision of myself as an owner of a black labrador retriever stems from the Cape Cod "Black Dog", an image that was always prevalant during my childhood summers. I've felt the need to get a dog-- to be a dog owner-- for a long time. Recently, that need has grown more specific: this past spring I spent countless hours pouring over petfinder.com listings with the filter "lab mix" and "black" (and sometimes even "chocolate"). I found plenty of candidates who didn't quite work out for various reasons, including my age, the dog's age, health problems, fear of cars... But when I met Guntar (who I promptly renamed Quavo), we seemed to hit it off. He wasn't exactly 100% the dog I had originally envisioned as My Dog, but he had this joyful energy to him and a goofy smile. He was an absolute sweetheart, I knew it was going to work, so I took him home.

The first time I was hit with this feeling was when he got into my Corolla for the dusk drive north across the border from Vermont. When he realized I was taking him away from his shelter, he tucked his tail away between his legs and his expression changed into what I now know is his resting expression. He shot right through me with piercing sad eyes.

I tried to make the back seat super comfortable. I placed his blanket in the back with a couple of toys I bought and plenty of treats and food and water. He didn't touch the food, let alone sit down comfortably on the seat. He stood on the floor in the back, completely still, staring at me tragically.

That's the first time I was reminded of the other Black Dog, a euphemism I've heard of to describe the symptoms of depression. What the hell was I thinking? I had willingly brought a Black Dog into my life. To be fair, I had contemplated the weight of my decision for years before, especially during the couple of months leading up to the final adoption. I knew it would be an adjustment, that I was giving up freedom, that it wouldn't be easy and that there would be some nasty surprises along the way. But I thought it would all be made better by the look of joy on my rescue dog's face for being placed into a loving home. Instead, I'm constantly reminded of the pain and sadness he holds.

As the weeks went by I began to comprehend the true weight of dealing with depression while also taking care of another living being who very well may also have depression (dogs can be depressed too, especially dogs who have been through trauma). On those days where it's a struggle to get out of bed, I now have to look into the melancholic eyes of my Black Dog and say "Sorry, I'm not taking you out to pee even though it's been 12 hours because I just can't get out of bed yet." Sometimes the responsibility sparks me into action and I rise to the challenge, coming back feeling renewed and refreshed. Other days, it compounds on top, adding a sense of extistensial guilt to my shitty morning.

The Black Dog also saddled me with plenty of additional sources of guilt and anxiety. Guilt that I'm not treating him well. Guilt for leaving him along while I'm out having fun. Guilt for bringing him out when I should have know he's afraid of fireworks. Guilt for watching a movie too loud in my living room because I'm not sure if the noises scare him or not. He's a very anxious dog, and he's reliant on me to provide him shelter from this terrible world. One particularly vivid instance of these feelings that I can remember is when I was driving to the McGill Outdoors Club house in Shawbridge with a group of close friends. This is a house I've known for years, a house which holds some of my very best memories. I was driving in my car, listening to my mix CDs with my friends. This is my comfort zone, my safe space, I should have been at the peak of my contentedness. But I was suddenly gripped by this familiar anxiety that instantly brought me back 10 years. It's one of the strongest anxieties in my life, and it feels like a mix of nostalgia, fear of the future, uncomfortability, and longing for home. I used to get it on camping trips or sleepovers. I hadn't felt this way for years. But this Black Dog had reeled this old anxiety back into my life.

I knew it was going to get better. I could already see progress-- albiet slow-- with his desensitization training. Weeks went by and he stopped incessently pacing back and forth in the house. He was able to relax and lie down in the park. Months went by and he stopped lunging at every passing biker. He smiled more and more. He started to play. He worked through his fear of shallow water. I had been told about this, and I believed it, but it was still incredible to see it start to happen. I behan to fall in love with him and all his faults.

I entered a new world of other dog owners who lived in the neighborhood. Leica is a 5 year old rescue with much more anxiety than Quavo who zooms around her owner in circles of excitement every time we run into her because she found a new friend to play with. Madeline's owner, Katherine, paints portraits of dogs and gave me a beautiful portrait of "Kwavo" (sic.) that perfectly captures his tender wistful gaze. When we visited my best friend Matan in Toronto, his dog Draco played with Quavo non-stop for the weekend. Matan was floored. Draco had never played with another dog before; we even had a contingency plan to relocate Draco in case he was too aggressive. The following week, Draco kept visiting the room where we stayed and crying for his friend back.

Quavo still stares at me with his sad eyes. I still feel inadequate and guilty sometimes. I've invited the Black Dog to follow me around every day, rain or shine. But I'm also learning how to train this Black Dog, and how to manage my new life with a Black Dog. Although Quavo has pulled me further from some of my old activities and friends (sometimes pulling quite literally), he's pushed me into uncharted territory at the same time. I'm giving a piece of my heart to this Black Dog, and in return I'll receive the entirety of his.