It was the worst year of my adult life. I have been crashing on my friend’s couch for two weeks. I wake up early in the morning, make some tea, get tired, lie down, and stare at the ceiling until someone else wakes up — then I listen to their footsteps and stare at the wall. I am afraid of staying alone: at home, on the streets, in a taxi, in the subway — fear overcomes me everywhere, every time, different, always paralyzing, making me cry. So, waiting for the antidepressants to kick in while staying in a house full of dogs and cats seems like the best solution.

I need a dog, too, I thought, as I ran my fingers through the fluffy fur of Juliet, a black-and-white Yorkie. She, like a chameleon, is sticking out her hot pink tongue and has already licked me all over. You little terrier face, I said, smelling the meat-scented whiskers of Julie. What will I do with a dog? You have to walk it, feed it, and play with it, and I can barely manage my morning tea. On the other hand, life will get better: we’ll go everywhere together, have fun, dance, and swim. My friend said it’s not that simple, and training is needed, but I was sure my dog would be naturally gifted. I like things to be perfect. And when something doesn’t go as planned — tears, helplessness, thoughts of death. I’ve crashed on this ship many times. And it feels like I’ll crash again unless a dog fixes everything.

I had been checking out different dogs, and after six months of searching, I received a photo of a little black dog: the perfect size and a charming smile. Her rescuer told me the next car from Sochi to Moscow was in a week. I was lying at my parents’ house with a broken leg, but I agreed without hesitation. Soon enough, I was standing on crutches in a huge, almost empty parking lot. My dog came flying out of a pickup on crooked little legs with her mouth wide open. I got down on my knees to pet her, and she lay down belly up. How cute, I thought, not realizing that she wasn’t trying to charm me like I usually do with new people — she was simply scared.

We came home, and this tiny creature followed me into the bathroom. I burst into tears — her gaze was adorably sweet and clumsily naive — and started googling how long dogs live. Of course, I knew how long dogs live, but I couldn’t believe I would be responsible for this little black something for the next fifteen years. Now, I really couldn’t afford to fall into depression. In fact, I probably can’t have such a horrible depression anymore — I can recognize it early now. And what kind of depression can you talk about when you live in your lovely new apartment with your little black dog?

Our stable life together with Terra didn’t last long, and within a year, we were gathering documents to move to Germany. The flight was a huge stress for Terra, the soundproofing in the new apartment — ­­terrible, and my neighbours — ­true Germans. So, within a few days, they complained to my landlords about Terra’s bark. I cried and wrote in my journal how much I hated my dog. I could have hated the neighbours, the German laws stating that dogs can bark no more than an hour a day, but not from 12 to 3 p.m. and not from 10 p.m. to 7 a.m., and certainly not on holidays and Sundays, my rental contract, which stated that if neighbours complained, I could be evicted. But instead, I hated my dog.

My hatred grew, burning everything around it, and I found that every thought in my head led me to death. My girlfriend even came up with a system of fines: every time I said I wanted to kill myself, I had to send her ten euros. Of course, I told her that, considering how poor I was, it would only make me want to kill myself more, but she was relentless. It seems like suicide is a forbidden word. It makes people tense up, awkwardly giggle, or start showing pity. And I try not to use it, but I don’t know how to talk about what concerns me so deeply. Death, for me, is just the opposite pole of life, a place I try to stay far from because, really, I don’t want to die at all. Never-ever. At least until the next depression.

Jeanette Winterson writes that there’s a part of her so broken that it was easier to come to terms with death than to make peace with herself. That broken part is hard to hide, and other people with similarly broken parts always seem to notice it. And my little black dog seems to notice it, too, treating it with love and care. So, I don’t lose hope because I love myself and wish myself happiness.

I don’t know where it is
happiness, 
maybe,
in the little black ball of fluff 
that whistles
when I pet her
clicks her tongue
gently
as she dozes off
nestled under my arm
pushes her paws
against my body — 
probably,
to her it seems big and strong — 
probably,
she believes in me — 
sighing
settling more comfortably 
snorting 
curling up 
into a smaller ball

I look at her, and this planet seems a better place. She snorts, and her breathing is slowing — she’s sleeping — she spent a year wandering the streets and pushing herself to the ground with every hand gesture made, showing her pink belly. From fight-or-flight, she chose freeze, and she couldn’t bark, even though she was already an adult

at first, she let out a squeaky yap— 
then it grew into a strong woof — 
such a fierce woof for such a tiny one — 
we are so much the same

I wanted a dog as a remedy, a motivation to live. I wanted a functional, joyful dog. I wanted to do everything with her, like in those viral videos, but Terra is afraid of swimming, doesn’t like dancing, barks at strangers, and vanishes if you let her off-leash. It turned out that a dog doesn’t save you from depression, and in the most difficult moments, I wish she would just disappear. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, thinking how much I hate my dog. I hold this warm little ball and kiss her head while thinking about how I could get rid of her. It hurts, and I hold the ball tighter. We’ll get through this, my dear dog. We’ll get through it all.

Tomorrow marks three years since Terra and I have been together. I can’t believe I’ve known her for so long. I look back at photos and videos from our first meeting and realize I used to see her differently. She seemed funny, small, and fragile to me, and now I notice how defined her muscles are, how uncompromisingly she demands to be petted, and how she explores areas with a hunter’s instinct.

I’m sorry I didn’t see Terra for who she really was earlier and started truly accepting her after three years, but to be fair, I haven’t accepted myself after twenty-five. When we fought in my childhood, my mother would beg the Lord to send me a daughter just as difficult as I was — Terra loves freedom just as much as I do. Maybe if my mother had seen something more in me than just her daughter, I wouldn’t spend hours staring at the ceiling. Maybe if I had seen Terra not as my dog, but as just a little black dog, I would have stopped blaming her for my own mistakes.

You see, there are three key points for having a good relationship with your dog, the dog trainer explained. The first is attraction, meaning that your dog likes you. In general, she already does: you two have shared interests…

Terra is looking at me with loving eyes. People usually say a loyal gaze, but I think it’s a loving one, one straight to the heart — I see the whole planet Earth in her eyes.

But there’s also the third point — authority. That’s how much she trusts your decisions, finding them reasonable from the dog’s perspective.

I’m sorry, my dear dog, that trusting my decisions is a bad idea. I guess this is something to work on, probably work on for a lifetime, I should learn to trust my own decisions first — then everything will fall into place. The little monster crawls out from under the blanket and comes to kiss me, and I can no longer see what I’m writing. I try to push her away, but it doesn’t last long — she keeps licking my hands and lifting them with her nose, demanding to pet her. Come on, dog, let’s go for a walk. My little black dog.