Silla. If you were to ask me what or who I will miss the most while I’m in Dublin, my answer would be a single word: Silla.

It has been one week since my first Adventures in Dublin post, and I am happy to announce that my Ireland “to do” list has shortened considerably. Today I knocked off yet another task from that list, which was getting my dog Silla [Sill-ah] everything she will need while I’m off adventuring in Ireland, but it nearly broke my heart in the process. (Yes, I know I’m being melodramatic—I tend to do that when my furbaby is involved!)

I was first separated from my sweet mutt back in 2014 for a family vacation to Key West. Silla was much younger then and more prone to infection, and like most animal rescues, she came to me predisposed to one: ringworm. The other puppies in her litter had started showing signs of the infection shortly after being adopted, and sure enough my Silla followed soon after.

Naturally, the indifferent universe in its (highly questionable) wisdom chose to bless my pup with a nasty bout of ringworm the day we arrived in Key West, approximately 831 miles away from her. Silla’s babysitter, who also happens to be my dad, was forced to take her to the vet to stay overnight. My dad and step-mom have dogs of their own, but their schnauzers were older and even more susceptible to infection, which meant Silla’s presence risked their already fragile health.

(Now, let me preface this next paragraph by saying, once again, that I know I’m being melodramatic.)

When I got my dad’s text informing me of the situation, I had just gotten off the plane. I (quite suddenly) burst into tears at the thought of my sweet puppy alone at the kennel, where she ended up having to stay for the remainder of my vacation.

And this vacation lasted less than a week. One week.

My trip to Dublin is going to last more than two months! I have never been away from Silla for such a long period of time before, and, quite frankly, I’m freaking out a bit. (Well, a bit might be a slight understatement.)

This wonderful furball of a creature has slept in bed with me ever since I rescued her. I don’t think I even know how to sleep alone anymore, which is saying something coming from someone like me—a fairly solitary person and self-described introvert.

The realization that I am never actually alone caught me by surprise. As someone who spends a lot of time on her own, the thought that I would be leaving a constant companion this summer never occurred to me, which unfortunately gives credence to cliché phrases such as “you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.”

Even people who adore animals can sometimes take his or her pet’s presence for granted. Silla’s continuous outpouring of love wasn’t overtly noticeable to me until I thought about being without it for two months. Now I can’t stop thinking about it!

But when I think about the human beings I will miss, (yes, that includes you too, Mom) it is a lot less painful. Now, before my peeps get insulted, let me explain myself.

The act of missing a person and the act of missing a pet are two completely different concepts, in my opinion. Human beings (generally) have lives of their own, whereas the lives of their pets do not. It is not self-centered to say that your dog’s life revolves around you, because it actually does.

So, here I sit, worrying about how Silla will feel once I’m gone. Will she think I abandoned her? Will she get depressed? Who will she sleep with at night? Will she get enough attention?

What is the solution to my problem, you may ask?

Wonderful, wonderful roommates.

Leaving Silla in their capable hands alleviates most of my fears. I don’t know what I would have done if it weren’t for their help. Silla’s week-long visit to the kennel is now a distant memory that will never have to be repeated again.

So even though I will be missing her dearly while I’m in Dublin, she will be perfectly content back at home with her extended family. (But she will still miss her mom, of course … right? Right???)

With love,

Kinsey

Kinsey Keys

aspiring memoirist rummaging through my noggin, stubbornly clutching the past to my chest like it’s a newborn babe starved for mother's milk.

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