I'm 38 and I'm single, and I'm having my most intense and gratifying relationship with a dog. But we all learn about love in different ways, and this way happens to be mine.

It happened this way: I fell in love and then, because the love was ruining everything I cared about, I had to fall out.

Before you get a dog, you can't quite imagine what living with one might be like; afterward, you can't imagine living any other way.

When you love somebody, or something, its amazing how willing you are to overlook the flaws.

I'm still prone to periods of isolation, still more fearful of the world out there and more averse to pleasure and risk than I'd like to be; I still direct more energy toward controlling and minimizing appetites than toward indulging them.

Consumerism thrives on emotional voids.

There's something about sober living and sober thinking, about facing long afternoons without the numbing distraction of anesthesia that disabuses you of the belief in the externals, shows you that strength and hope come not from circumstances or the acquisition of things, but from the simple accumulation of active experience, from gritting the teeth and checking the items off the list, one by one, even if it's painful and you're afraid.