Growing up with a mother who takes in every stray that needs love and a father who hunts with greyhounds, I had a lot of dogs. We had plenty of room on the ranch, and with 6-8 kids, my mother’s house was never too small, so I’ve had up to 20-some dogs at a time before. When I moved to Lincoln, and found myself living in an apartment complex that wouldn’t let you even walk dogs on their sidewalk, I was heartbroken.
It was about this time that I started getting invited to parties, seeing as it was football season. (GO BIG RED) At first, I was just trying to make some friends in the new city I lived in, but then I realized that not many of the people I was meeting, I wanted to be friends with anyway. That’s when I realized the people weren’t the best part of the party, their dogs were. It became a weekend routine to travel from house party to house party looking for dogs to befriend, and once the weekend quota was filled, my anxiety seemed to dissipate.
My advice to anyone at all, especially those being pressured into partying or going places you don’t really want to be: find the dog. I promise there is almost always one not far away, even if you have to wander a little ways. Pictured below: me hugging a black lab at some ghetto house party, me getting love from Sadie (my Daddy’s dog), Max (my brother’s dog), and my precious boy, Barley, me hugging a puppy I partied with regularly that I named Floof (and seriously considered stealing), me and some other dog I met somewhere in order to fill my weekend quota, and my Barley and I.