In Which Caring for Others Yields Abundant Personal Growth

I've been thinking some more about Friday's post, when I discussed the message of the Winnie-the-Pooh story, when the inherent personal flaws of the characters are transcended by the act of caring for one another.

As I have mentioned, I wanted to get a dog for twenty years before I got Rosie, but various obstacles got in my way.  First, there was my mother who absolutely forbid any pets in the house after our Golden Retriever, Katie Dog, died.  Then I went off to college and dogs were not allowed on campus (and living off-campus in Poughkeepsie did not seem particularly appealing).  Then my first apartment out of college was with someone who didn't particularly care for dogs at the time and we were in a building that didn't allow pets, besides.

When I moved to my next apartment, one year later, it was specifically with the idea of getting a dog in mind.  The building that I was moving into was pet-friendly, and my friends that I was moving in with had tentatively indicated that this was a possibility.  Over the course of my first few months in this apartment, though, it became clear that there was not really any intention to let me get a dog.  They kept putting hurdles in my path—little tests that would decide if I could handle it, e.g. I needed to keep the apartment (or at least my room) clean for a certain period of time, &c.  And every time I cleared one hurdle, there was always a new one.  I could've just gone ahead and gotten a dog anyway, but that would've caused needless strife amongst us, as well as it being unfair to the dog to bring her into an environment in which not everyone wanted her.

I don't really blame my former roommates; I think I would've had the same reaction if our roles were reversed.  The me of 2006 would not have struck many people as being equipped to deal with a dog.  I am a depressive, and I was very much mired in a depression at the time.  I was chronically unemployed and would regularly stay up until three or four in the morning and then sleep until one in the afternoon, sometimes later.  I didn't do much during this time except watch TV, read, eat, surf the Internet, and masturbate.  I didn't spend much time with other people except to watch a Yankees game or something mindless on TV.  I numbed myself off completely from the rest of the world and all the ups and downs inherent therein.  I was a zombie.  I am certainly still capable of these habits and indulge in them from time to time.

I was able to emerge from this depression slowly over the course of the year living in this apartment, but was still unemployed and prone to staying up and sleeping in late.  So when the lease in that apartment came to a close, I finally resolved to live by myself, mostly just so that I could finally get a dog.  As I was getting ready to move out, my roommates expressed their concerns to me.  "When the dog needs to get walked early in the morning, what are you going to do?" they asked.  I shrugged my shoulders.  "I'll just do it."

I had my doubts, as well, but I just never felt for a second that my poor sleeping habits would get in the way of my dream.  And when I finally brought Rosie home, those doubts were proved wrong.  I mean, the doubts were still there—in fact, there were more of them and they were even stronger than before.  I spent the first several months of living with Rosie completely terrified, and constantly imagining that I was giving her a terrible life and needed to give her to somebody else.  But I got up and walked her every morning, noon, and night.  When she needed to be fed, I fed her.  When she peed in the apartment, I cleaned it up.  I gave her baths.  I took her to the vet.  I got her toys, and played with her.  I learned to love her and trust her, and gained her trust and love in turn.

The point I'm trying to make is that despite my many bad habits, I took care of Rosie.  Not taking care of her was just never an option.  Caring for someone else, in this case Rosie, transcended my personal flaws.  And I find this to be the case in so many situations.  Caring for my dog or my girlfriend or my friends or my family makes me a better person.  It makes me happier, more responsible, and more content.  And I often receive the same love and care in return.

I'm not naïve.  I know that this doesn't work all the time or for everyone.  Being selfish is oftentimes necessary, or at least the best possible option.  But I have found that caring for others is most often in my self-interest, and that I am not the only one who feels this way.