The First Thing I Chose to Love Again

The First Thing I Chose to Love Again

by Mary Monoky

There was a time when every ounce of my energy went toward managing this broken body.

Each day was a calculation: what could I do, what should I avoid, what would it cost tomorrow. My world got smaller, tighter. I became the only thing I was responsible for—and even that felt like too much.

But then, I got a dog.

Before inviting her into my life, I had conditions.

She couldn’t be high-energy. I needed calm. Compatibility. A presence that wouldn’t overwhelm the fragile balance I was barely holding onto.

I also needed a home that made it possible—which meant a fenced yard. A place where she could move freely without depending on me. I wasn’t just planning for companionship. I was planning for sustainability.

I prepared for the bad days, too—the ones when I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed. I installed an automatic dog door. A simple thing that said: I see this through. I won’t leave you stuck.

I considered rescue dogs, but in the end, I chose to start fresh. I wasn’t looking to fix something. I was ready to grow something.

My son had recently gotten a Labradoodle. I hadn’t known the breed, but his dog had a perfect blend of loyalty, intelligence, and ease. Friendly. Non-shedding. Affectionate without being clingy. Everything I hadn’t known I was looking for.

So I chose a female puppy born on a farm in Iowa.

It wasn’t impulsive. It felt sacred. She was barely bigger than a loaf of bread, but something in me softened when I saw her photo. Not excitement—recognition.

I made arrangements with the family to send her with their brother when he flew to New Jersey. No cargo hold. No stress. Just a small dog, arriving gently into my arms.

Driving to the airport to meet this stranger carrying my puppy was probably the most excited I’ve been as an adult.

Of course, I’m not including raising my children and all the sacred moments that come with that.

This was a different kind of excitement.

This was just for me.