TW: description of attempted suicide
Darla.
I will remember that dog’s name for as long as my lungs keep clocking in for work.
Not because she was mine. Not because she belonged to a friend, a family member, or even a neighbor I pretended to like at block parties. Darla was a shelter dog—one of many—living at Women’s Animal Center during the same stretch of time I worked there. She arrived only a few weeks after I did, and she left only a few weeks before I did. In the quiet math of shelter life, Darla and I shared nearly the same sentence.
She was a pittie-type, broadly speaking. Some Staffy, maybe some bull terrier—definitely some kind of potato. Not the athletic, bodybuilder variety you see on calendars, but stout and solid, like she had been assembled with love and a mild disregard for aerodynamics. Mostly white, with a few perfectly placed chocolate-brown patches that looked like they’d been added last minute for character. Triangular, glossy brown eyes that missed nothing. And despite whatever series of deeply unfair events landed her in a kennel for nearly two years, she wore the biggest, most unbothered smile I’ve ever seen on a living thing.
In animal welfare, you’re not supposed to have favorites. It’s considered unprofessional. Sensible. Necessary, even.
It’s also complete nonsense.
Caregivers don’t choose favorites. Favorites choose you. And if my living situation had been even remotely compatible with reality, I would have adopted Darla without hesitation. Unfortunately, I lived in my mother-in-law’s house—a woman who regarded pet hair the way most people regard asbestos. I was also married to someone allergic to, and I am not exaggerating here, everything. Grass. Dander. Pollen. Probably joy. I could not have a dog.
So I did the next best thing: I decided Darla was my dog anyway.
Even if she couldn’t come home with me, I would make damn sure her time in the shelter was as comfortable, enriching, and love-soaked as I could possibly make it. Walks. Snuggles. Extra attention. That soft voice you reserve for animals and babies and no one else. Something about her felt… important. Familiar. Like we’d already agreed on something I couldn’t quite remember.
I know how this sounds. I promise I’m not unwell in a crystals-and-moon-water kind of way. But there was something intangible between us. Some unseen thread that tugged tight whenever we were in the same room. When I handled her, she melted into me like warm wax. When someone else handled her and I happened to be nearby, she made her displeasure known—pulling, scrambling, carrying on like a Broadway understudy denied her moment. She wanted me. She made no effort to be subtle about it.
Everyone noticed. Everyone was jealous. And honestly? Fair.
There is no better feeling on earth than being chosen by an animal who owes you nothing.
When my marriage ended and it became clear my days in that house were numbered, I tried—truly tried—to engineer a version of reality where Darla and I could finally be official. I ran numbers. I clipped corners. I budgeted like a monk. But rent in the tri-state area laughed directly in my face. I had found my calling in animal welfare and couldn’t imagine abandoning it for something more lucrative but soul-less. This job, at this exact moment in my life, was the only thing giving me any sense of purpose.
So I couldn’t live alone. I needed a roommate—or a car with room to stretch out.
I asked my friend Jack for help, and he welcomed me into his home with generosity I will never forget. No expiration date. A price I could afford. Unfortunately, Jack and his mom already had dogs—dogs with opinions about other dogs. Strong ones. And just like that, the dream of Darla being mine evaporated.
Time kept moving. Rudely.
Friends got married. Had babies. Bought houses. Posted smiling photos that felt like personal attacks. I felt alone. Forgotten. Left behind. Some of that was real. Some of it was distortion. Some of it was self-imposed isolation masquerading as dignity. I could have asked for help. People probably would have shown up. But it felt wrong to interrupt their highlight reels with my demolition footage.
Work became the only place I mattered. So I poured myself into it until there was nothing left. Burnout doesn’t announce itself—it just quietly hollows you out. Eventually, my spirit felt scraped clean. Life lost its meaning. Purpose drained out of me like a fire hose with the nozzle removed.
On the night of August 28th, 2024—the day after my 40th birthday—I decided to celebrate alone. New decade. New me. Allegedly. My friends had planned a party for later that week, but that night was mine. I bought a bottle of Monkey Shoulder, queued up my favorite songs, and started drinking. Then continued. Then committed.
At some point the sun set. I didn’t even notice. I sat in the dark of my small, loud, overheated bedroom, using the lid of my trash can as a table. I was too drunk to turn on the light and too tired of being tired to care. And in that exact moment, it hit me: I was starting over. Completely. From nothing.
The realization hit me like a train through a pigeon.
My marriage was over. I was functionally homeless. Broke. I ended my relationship with my father. My mother lived 2,300 miles away. The job I once loved no longer loved me back. Climbing out of this felt like Everest without legs, oxygen, or a compelling reason to try.
I didn’t want to keep going. I stood up and stumbled in the dark to my dresser. I picked up my Smith And Wesson utility knife and returned to the edge of my bed. I began to cry violently. Once more I poured a whiskey. I downed it and stuck the knife to my carotid artery. I squeezed the handle as hard as i could, the grip digging into my palm. I pressed the serration into my throat, eyes slammed shut, tears pouring down my face. I could feel the points on the blade digging into my flesh. I could feel blood. It wasn’t deep enough to end my life, but deep enough that all I had to do was pull the blade in any direction and I would paint the walls with my blood. My arm shook as my grip tightened still. I wanted to die. I was doing it. This was the night I would commit suicide. It wasn’t a cry for help. It wasn’t for attention. It wasn’t ideation. It was defcon 1: this was not a drill. I was killing myself.
Like every movie, I expected my life to flash before my eyes—some cinematic montage set to a tasteful indie song. It didn’t. I was frustrated. Annoyed. Frankly, it felt like a fucking rip-off. I remember thinking, This is how it ends and I don’t even get the highlight reel?
And then—uninvited but unmistakable—a single thought broke through.
Darla.
That unassuming dog. That smile. My dog.
What would happen to her? Would she be adopted? Would she remember me? Would she wait for me to come back? Would she wonder why I didn’t?
And in that moment, I understood the thing I’d been circling since I met that dog. That unseen force. That bond.
Purpose.
Guidance.
Hope.
I put the knife away. I poured every drop of alcohol I owned down the sink. I cried until sleep took over.
The next day, I called my therapist’s emergency line. She responded immediately. Medication was changed. Help arrived. Days later, I was surrounded by friends celebrating my birthday. That same night, the woman who would become the love of my life followed me on social media—proof that the universe sometimes whispers before it shouts.
Later on the following week, my therapist asked, “If you were that close to the edge… what stopped you? Why are you still here?”
I sat quietly for a long time. Stared at the floor. Tears filled the lenses of my glasses like pools. Swallowed the lump in my throat.
And finally said,
“I’m still here because of a dog named Darla.”
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