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I mean, in the golden age of grocery delivery and two-day online shipping, there really seemed to be no good reason to leave my own personal little sanctuary.
Frida, like all gifts that come from my mother, came with expectations. But she was the only present that I absolutely adored, even if it was the bane of my mother’s existence that she felt Frida only made me “worse,” not better, like she’d intended.
I figured it was a win that Frida’s walks forced me to get fresh air, sunlight, and even made me occasionally speak to other people. Sure, most of that talking was just telling other people with dogs that Frida was not friendly. But I was proud of myself for standing up for her, for insisting that her boundaries be respected.
I wasn’t great at doing that for myself.
But for my anxiety-riddled dog?
I could be a raving lunatic if necessary.
“I know, baby,” I cooed at Frida half an hour later as she kept looking up at me with her whale eyes. “That was an extra scary bike, right?” I said, thinking of the four-person tandem bike that had just rushed past us, making Frida nearly fell me with how fast she wrapped me up in her leash.
You’d think that exposure would lessen her anxiety. And this was Miami. She was exposed toeverythingon a daily basis.
But, nope.
The more she saw these things, the more they seemed to freak her out.
As I walked her back to our apartment, I was starting to seriously wonder if her vet was right about needing to medicate her.
“Avoidance isn’t treatment, Siana,” she’d told me, and some part of me wondered if she knew it was my own personal method of treating my own anxieties. By completely staying away from triggers.
“Bad walk?” my neighbor asked as we walked down our hallway toward our apartment. I could feel my posture slump, and Frida seemed similarly worn down by the whole excursion.
“Tandem bicycle,” I told him with a big sigh as he reached out toward Frida. It was always a fifty-fifty chance of Frida letting Kylo touch her.
This time, she did, but she wasn’t wagging to encourage more of it.
“You’re a fucking mess, dog,” he told her.
She takes after her mother, I added silently.
He probably thought that too, but he said nothing.
When it came to having neighbors, you wouldn’t think that the six-foot-four, heavily tattooed guy with “bad news” written all over him, someone who had shady people coming and going at all hours of the night, would be comforting.
Yet, I liked Kylo. He was infinitely better than the older lady who lived there before him. Someone who always wanted to drop over uninvited, forcing her way into my apartment, and then talking endlessly about how big of screw-ups her grandkids were.
As a screwed-up grandkid myself, you could say I was relieved to see her moving out with her new boyfriend.
Kylo minded his own business.
He never came over.
And he only ever felt the need to exchange a handful of words with me when we were in the hall or elevator together.
Was he very likely some shady criminal?
Oh, heck yes.
But I could excuse that when he left me alone.
“Catch you around,” Kylo said, jerking his chin up at me, then taking long-legged strides toward the elevator.
“It’s okay,” I cooed at Frida as I removed her leash, and watched her beeline for her big inner tube sized fluffy bed in the corner near the sliding doors to the small balcony, grabbing her stuffed Golden Retriever, and curling around him.
It was the first time I could release my held breath as I looked around my apartment.
