So, once January rolled around I thought I'd been through enough. I finally put 2014 behind me; I was ready for a fresh start. And 2015 was good to me for a few weeks. Then we got thrown another curveball and our world was twisted right on its head again. After a few months, we are finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. I thought I was done.
Then, Sunday morning Mark woke me up and looked like he'd seen a ghost. My sweet, skittish, rescued from the 2011 tornado in Tuscaloosa dog, Sipsey, was let out last night to go to the bathroom and didn't come inside.
She has not yet found her way home.
I have spent hours, nearly days, crying. I am desperately trying to find some perspective, because I know she's "just a dog." But she's not just a dog, not to me. She's been my sweet companion for four years. She's taught me patience, been someone to listen to me rant during that tough final year in Tuscaloosa. She was there when I cried myself to sleep from loneliness when I first moved here.
She's "nothing special." "No one will want her," people have told me. Like that's supposed to be comforting. But here's the thing: I want her. I thought I had been through enough. I know she wants to come home, she needs to come home, but she's lost and can't find her way.
As of this morning, our lost pet post has received over 300 shares on Facebook, we've passed out over 175 printed fliers. We are offering a reward for her safe return. I've called every local vet and been to the animal shelter twice to look for her.
And still nothing.
I'm trying very hard not to lose faith, because so far, every challenge, every hardship I've endured over the last 18 months has not yet broken me. But this one, it just might.
St. Anthony, St. Anthony, please come around, someone is lost that can't be found.
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