When we lived in Florida, we had a lab mix named Snickers. True to his breed, he loved to be right next to his people. While we were temporarily in a rental house, he had to stay outside, and he became an escape artist. One day driving home from work, I saw him happily trotting on the side of the road. I pulled over, opened the sliding van door, and told Snickers to get in. He did, but he didn't look well; his eyes seemed a bit sunken. And he smelled awful. I began thinking about how I would fit in a bath for him before dinner. When I pulled up to the house, Snickers was also happily peering at me through the fence in the backyard. π€
I have to say that my family has been relentless in never letting me forget I picked up the wrong dog; essentially, I became a dog-knapper. They love to make fun of me to this day, as there may have been a couple of not-so-subtle differences when we put them side by side. π€·βοΈ
I like my newer perspective, though. He didn't have a collar or chip and was clearly lost. We likely kept him from injury by car while our neighbors who wanted a dog cared for him and gave him a loving family as we searched for his owners. He was happy in his new backyard - right next to his twin brother. π
While I could tie in how this relates to our diagnostic biases, I think the biggest point I want to make is that you can re-write your story for yourself and find a greater perspective.
Even if you did pick up the wrong dang dog.
Responses