A big part of the reason I’m okay being alone is that I have a dog, specifically one very good girl named Maggie. She is a shepherd mix, weighing in at about 55 pounds. I adopted her from a rescue when she was about two and a half years old, after she’d had nine puppies (that all found good homes).

Maggie is now six, and we do a great deal together. She knows my routines, and lots of words; in return, I’ve come to recognize her reactions and preferences. She knows me in a way that no one else does or cares to, frankly, and that has created a strong bond between us.

She is my friend, my companion, my joy and my solace. I take her with me on trips to places I can drive. Going on trips without her is emotionally difficult for me, though once I get to my destination and the petsitter confirms all is okay, I’m good with that.

I know that “dog people” can be really annoying to non-dog people and I make some effort not to be one of those people. But life with Maggie is just nice, and I don’t feel alone because of her. Seeing her happy makes me happy.