Chapter 1: Big Changes Happen Fast

It is ten p.m. I’m propped up on my pillows with my trusty notebook in hand. I've made this a habit I hope to continue with this new guy in my life.

The new guy's name is Arche (pronounced Arr-Chee but spelled wrong). You'd think he's named after the comics, being a dashing ginger and all—but that was actually more of a happy coincidence. In truth: he's named after the Greek Muse of Beginnings, whose pronunciation (as per Google) is closer to Arkh-Hai-Yee. That felt over the top. I think simple will work.

I chose his name deliberately. I've been writing on and off for about a year now, but could use some help. We’ll see if he provides it.

Maybe, by invoking the name of the muse and welcoming this guy into my life, inspiration will follow. Whether by divine intervention or by placebo, I have hope. In the very least: things will be different around here, and "different" seems a fertile ground for creativity.

As I scribble this, Arche is tucked away a few feet from me. I heard it's a good idea to keep him close on his first night away from his brothers and sisters. I can't imagine how freaked out he must be. I feel like I ripped him from his home and family. I will, of course, form his new family soon—but he does not know that yet.

He's not complaining too much, so I guess this plan is working so far. I've got him in an Arche-sized crate, propped up on my bedside table with the opening a few feet from my head. He can see me if he positions himself right, and I can reach my fingers through the bars to give him someone to smell when needed.

He currently doesn't need it—though his face is smushed up against that grate in what cannot be a comfortable position. Maybe a quick pet is called for. One sec-

He's good. Surprisingly good. It was a huge day for him: chaos at his old home with siblings disappearing one by one; his first hour-long car ride (courtesy of my friend Chris who re-learned to drive stick on the fly so I could hold the pup); his first leashed walk; his first skateboard, streetcar, bicycle, and garbage truck sightings; and his first day with me.

Big day.

Big day for me, too. How do I have a dog all of a sudden? I'm looking over at this guy, and it doesn't really make sense. He's mine? It's up to me to keep him alive and help him grow into a good kid—a functioning adult dog? How'd that happen? I just sent a woman in Bowmanville, Ontario an e-transfer and she handed me this ball of fluff in return. The process should have been more elaborate. Someone should have vetted me. I should have taken a course. I should have written a test. Something!

It is not sinking in. Yesterday, I slept alone in this Toronto apartment. Today isn't different; it shouldn't be different, at least. There were no title cards to signal a new act; there was no fanfare; there was no new chapter marked; it's just another Saturday night.

Except: Arche's here, so…everything's different.

Well, now I'm uncomfortable. Did my collar just shrink?

This happened too fast. I mean...that's not even really true though, is it? I submitted paperwork over two months ago. I met with the breeder four times since then. I watched a dozen hours of webcam footage of Arche and his siblings. I read a book about raising a puppy. And before all that, I spent a decade contemplating a pet.

This wasn't a sudden or impulsive decision. I've been preparing for this day in one way or another for years. But still: this is so sudden. The change is sudden. The prep was inconsequential; this monstrous change still happened in the snap-of-a-finger.

One day; one car ride; one transaction—and my life will never be the same.

That's the nature of change, though. It just...happens. It hits you like a ten-tonne brick moving way faster than it has any right to.

I can phrase that better:

Big, life-altering events will blindside you like a bouncing, adorable—and incredibly sneaky—five-pound puppy. Prepare as much as you want: you’ll never see ‘em coming.

Oh boy. Is that--? Yep, the panic is sinking in.

Arche fundamentally changed the way I look at change.

Gurus and teachers will tell you: "change is the natural state of the universe;" "life is a river and you're better off riding the current than swimming upstream."

So eloquent. So unhelpful when the brick hits you.

No one tells you about the nature of the river. When someone said, "ride the current," I pictured a lazy river: always in motion yet perfectly safe. You're swept along, but you could still touch the riverbed if you stretched your tippy-toes.

The ninety-foot waterfall around the bend never occurred to me.

Change itself is volatile. Sometimes it happens gradually and imperceptibly; sometimes it sends you spinning off-planet. The latter is hard to be Zen about. You can practice and prepare; you can do breathing exercises; but when that river drops out from under you, you're still going to feel that nauseating pit in your stomach. You’ll freak out. You’ll feel like you might die. You’ll wonder if you'll ever return to Earth—if life will ever be “normal” again.

Therein lies the trick of change: life won’t ever be normal again—not in any way you’d recognize. And yet: that’s okay. Instead of recapturing “normal,” you’ll find something new, and you’ll find it’s also survivable.

That's a lesson Arche taught me, while I was lying in my bed beside his crate, that I wasn't able to learn before. See, this wasn't my first dance with a cat-9-earthquake change.

Eight years ago, my mom passed away suddenly. I didn't handle it well. That time, when the ground dropped out: I got lost in space.

I was twenty-two. I'd just finished school and moved out of my family home for what would be the last time. Changes were already coming at breakneck speeds—but I was riding the waves. There was stress, but I was, for the most part, staying afloat.

And then the whole world changed with a strained phone call from my dad, the most anxiety-filled taxi ride imaginable, and the inevitable bombshell news about a crash.

That's not the kind of change you prepare for. It’s not some turbulence in the ever-moving river of life. That’s a slingshot into outer space without a spacesuit. It knocks the wind out of you and makes you wonder if there’s any air in this foreign world.

When you’re rocked with something so sudden and huge, embrace change platitudes go out the window. You’re in survival mode. All manner of fear responses kick in. Calm isn’t an option.

Everyone does something a little different in those moments. Me: I spent as little time floating in that new world as possible. I absolutely refused to settle in. Instead I clawed my way back to a more familiar life. It took about forty-eight hours.

My secret was making a list of what specifically would be different going forward, and (more importantly) what would remain the same. The goal was to prove that, contrary to my initial feeling, this change wasn't earth shattering.

Holidays would suck—Christmas especially. Fine. That's only a handful of days out of the year. I'd miss having someone to complain to about life in general. I'd miss having someone who would (lovingly) call me out on my excuses when life seemed "unfair."

I would miss my mom, but let's be honest, I told myself, you were going to start seeing her less and less anyway. Two hundred days out of the year, I might not have even talked to her. Plus, my friends would still be around; I still had my job to think about; I had a new & exciting Toronto apartment; my sports teams would still play games; comedy shows would still be funny; music would still be made—life would roll on, for the most part, as usual.

Technically: it worked. I survived. (I am here writing this, after all.) But as you can probably guess: telling yourself that missing the most important person in your life isn't that big a deal doesn't stick in the long run.

Because it's a lie: it was a really big deal. Giant changes do happen, and they change everything. Convincing yourself otherwise, while a solution, is not a good solution. I never actually “clawed my way back” to the world I knew. I’d created this bubble—a reflection of my familiar world—and there I got stuck.

It took me six years, a number of failed relationships, and a good deal of therapy to finally admit I was holding onto in a world that no longer existed. It was six years before I rejoined that proverbial current of life.

I knew that wouldn't work with Arche.

Dogs don't let you ignore change. (That's what cats are for.) Dogs stick a paw in nearly every aspect of your life: your work schedule moves; your sleep shifts; you walk more; you travel less; bar nights are different; strangers talk to you more (a lot more).

Dogs may change your priorities so much that you end up moving 4,000 miles from home to give the two of you a better life—but that's a story for another chapter.

As I lay there on my first night with Arche, I kicked off my list-building technique. Then, I looked it over and realized most of my "no-change" list really just meant neglecting the kid, sacrificing his development, isolating him, and just...not being as good a dog dad as I wanted to be.

I could travel, but that would mean bouncing around with sitters and kennels.
I could golf or snowboard, but that would mean hours alone in the house.
I could go drinking, but that would mean a boring day of inactivity for him while I recovered on the couch.

Ignored changes wouldn't just bite me in the long this time; they’d hurt him…and then might literally bite me.

So, I closed the book on my old techniques—and my heart promptly started racing, my breath shortened, and the panic sunk back in. Off I floated again, and I had no assurance I'd make it back home.

That’s just how big changes go: they’re overwhelming, and there are no magic cures. There is no compartmentalizing them; they affect everything. There is no going back to that old river we felt safe on; we adjust to a new stream, regardless of whether the water is purple or smells like tree bark.

It's a lot. It’s alien. It’s terrifying. It’s that simple.

But while I was in bed that night, and considered whether or not I could pull the ‘chute and take Arche back to the breeder, I learned something. I looked back at the little guy's furry, smushed face, and I realized: I was breathing.

I was a mess, but I was alive. My heart-rate was up—no doubt. My breaths were shallow and my sheets felt way too hot. But my vitals were clear.

So, maybe this guy wouldn’t kill me.

That’s the golden insight I’m leading this book off with: your puppy won’t kill you.

But I’m dead serious: when those big changes happen in the blink of an eye: we panic, and too few people will tell you it’s okay to panic. There’s too much of an appeal to calm, rational behaviour. Rationally, we all know change won't kill us, but when we panic, rationality goes out the window. A part of us thinks we're dying. (If we’re prone to anxiety, maybe a big part of us thinks we're dying.)

I felt that on night one with Arche. I thought my life was somehow in danger and it didn’t matter if that made zero sense. Too much was changing, and I withdrew into a defensive shell. It was the same feeling as the last time, except—

Except Arche’s tiny, adorable face sent the message that made it through the fear.

While not all giant & scary changes come in cute packages, I promise they come with the same message: you will adapt, and you will survive.

It's what we do, us humans. We're really, really good at it. It doesn’t take us millennia; in one lifetime we can go from living at the equator to an ice-hut in Antarctica. We can get used to living on a boat for years at a time. We can get used to literally living in space. We can adapt to eight-hour school days, and twenty-four-hour hospital shifts, and sleepless nights with a child, and new roommates, and lost loved ones, lost jobs, and lost limbs.

For thirty years, I was without a dog; in twenty-four hours, I was raising one on my own; twelve months later I am perfectly adapted. It's now weird when he's not around.

We may suck at staying calm, but through the panic, we still adapt. We often forget, but when faced with change, no matter how big and scary, we change ourselves.

So, you don’t need to be Zen. You don’t need to stay cool and collected. You definitely don’t need to pretend everything is “fine.” When big changes happen fast, we get scared, and there’s nothing wrong with that. As humans, we have a flair for the dramatic.

But remember: to be human is to be adaptable. If the same species can learn to live in rainforests and concrete jungles: we can get used to pretty much anything.

A dog won't kill you.

A break-up won't kill you.

A child won’t kill you.

A move won't kill you.

No matter how overwhelming the change; no matter how pervasive those fears grow from the back of your mind: you can handle it. Even if you’re lost in orbit: you'll learn to breathe again.