One year ago today, I realized Atticus was my family. A few days before, he said to me, "My name is Atticus and I belong to you." I asked a co-worker to take a picture of us, and asked J in a text, "What do you think of this dog?" J's response was, "That's a good looking dog."
The actual picture sent to J
I tried to talk myself out of Atticus. That was silly. You can't deny your family, or at least I can't. So one year ago today, I asked my friend Aubrey what I would need to do to bring him home. She told me I would need to fill out an application. I confided in her that I was worried about the whole process. What if after Atticus told me he belonged to me, and I filled out the application, the rescue denied me? She told me, "Trust me, you're approved."
All along, Aubrey had been the one to decide who was right for Atticus. She was not only a volunteer for the shelter, she was the contact for adoption approval. The entire time I was asking about his story, and asking my co-workers their impressions of him, and telling Aubrey about the budget I had written up, and sharing with Aubrey the visions I had of walking in the woods of Glen Arbor with Atticus, Aubrey was just waiting for me to fill out the application. I was approved. Atticus officially belonged to me. He wouldn't be able to come home for a few weeks, but among everyone in the world, he belonged to me.
Atticus still belongs to me. Atticus will always belong to me.
"My name is Atticus and I belong to you."
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