Happiness Together

By Marni Rader, Sherman Oaks, California

As appeared in

My vet tried to break the news to me gently. “I’m sorry, Marni. Tula’s got diabetes.”

My 10-year-old miniature pinscher Tula quivered on the examination table. I’d been worried about her lately; she was drinking and going to the bathroom more often. I cringed at the vet’s next words: “She’ll need insulin shots for the rest of her life. Twice a day to start, maybe more. You’ll need to administer the shots twelve hours apart. You can’t fudge it. Morning and night, same time, every day. I’ll write you a prescription. Fill it as soon as you leave here.”

I adored Tula. Eight years old when I adopted her from a shelter, she wasn’t the brightest thing in the world, a little spacey, the exact opposite of my other min pin, Tinker, who’s smart as a whip. But I loved Tula all the more for her quirks. I remembered her wariness the day I brought her home.

I gave her some space and a few days later she jumped on my bed and lay down, staring at me with a heartbreaking, tentatively trusting expression. She’d been abandoned twice before I adopted her. “I’ll never leave you, Tula,” I promised her. “I’m going to be your forever mommy.”

I still meant that. But this particular night, late in a fluorescent-lit vet’s office, hearing this terrible diagnosis, I wondered if I was really up to being Tula’s mom.

My life was a mess. Two months earlier I’d been laid off from my copywriting job at an online shoe retailer. Southern California was gripped by recession and I was already having to dip into my retirement to pay bills. Could I afford a lifetime of diabetes care? And what about those shots? I was single. Could I handle caring for Tula now all by myself? What if I got a full-time job? What if I had to work late or travel for business?

I shook these thoughts away, paid the vet bill (barely) and bundled Tula into the car for the drive to the pharmacy. I nearly burst into tears when the pharmacist asked for details about which kind of insulin I needed. “I have no idea!” I wailed. “It’s for my dog.” Eventually the pharmacist figured it out and handed me a package of insulin and two months’ supply of needles. I tried not to obsess over the cost. I’d gladly paid for both dogs’ various ailments over the years, but now I couldn’t help thinking about my dwindling bank account. Oh, Lord, I moaned, heading back out into the dark parking lot, I don’t know if I can handle this.

The first few days were rough. I had to feed Tula the moment she awoke at six then give her a shot an hour later. That was way earlier than I was used to getting up. In the three months since I’d been laid off, I’d gotten used to sleeping in. I stumbled out of bed, fed Tula and administered the shot. Luckily, Tula was more stoic than I; she didn’t even seem to mind the needle prick. She gazed up at me with that same trusting expression. “Oh, Tula,” I murmured. “I guess we’ll figure this out one way or the other.”

I looked around. It was kind of nice being up so early. The light coming in the windows was pretty. Everything was still, quiet. I ate breakfast then booted up the computer and cruised a few job-hunt sites. I had to admit, I’d kind of been letting my job search lag. It was so much easier to lie on the sofa reading a book or watching TV. I saw a few job possibilities and sent out résumés. Wow, I thought. I’ve accomplished more this morning than I usually do all day.