Just before I went to the hospital the last time, December of 2015, my mother and I got into a huge fight. She was convinced that I was neglecting Beck by not spending enough individual time with her. During the fight, Mom locked Beck up in the kennel outside of the house, and left her there. After we finished arguing, I let Beck loose from her trap, never knowing why Mom would punish her over my mistakes and carelessness.
I remember waking up most mornings at four am, getting out of bed by five thirty, watching the local news in my parent's bed with Dad sleeping next to me. By seven am, Beck was ready for a fresh, new day, and she would rest her chin on the bed with a ball in her mouth, nudging me strongly, sometimes whining or crying, and sometimes taking the ball and tossing it under a piece of furniture. And then crying more loudly.
Mom yelled that if I wouldn't take care of my animal, then I should give her away. A part of me agreed with her. I didn't have much energy for anything, much less devoting that energy to my dog.
After spending almost three months away at Stanford Hospital and then a month in residential care at Morgan Hill, I came home and Beck regarded me cautiously, as if I had been gone longer than what was reasonable in her mind, and she was upset with me. The only dog to immediately greet me was Wilson, who jumped up on my leg, clawing me. Beck pretended she didn't care one way or another, and I personally avowed to spend my free time with her, from now on.
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