Furry friend makes wait tolerable

I have this recurring dream.
Sure, the scenery and people vary some but the theme is always the same.
I’m in the Tampa Tribune newsroom trying to do the only thing I know how to do – write stories based on information I’ve gathered and interviews I’ve conducted.
I’m in ecstasy, knowing that I’m using the gift God gave me just as He planned.
But, inevitably, someone approaches me, usually a trusted friend who I expected to always support me. And this person blows my cover.
“You’re not supposed to be here. You were laid off.”
I wake up sweating and sobbing with the knowledge that my nightmare is real. I’ll never again sit in an office with my fellow reporters and feel the joy of producing copy that will appear in the next day’s newspaper.
I’ve lived through a number of hardships in my lifetime – watching my little brother waste away and die from a cruel disease; a brutal rape at knifepoint by a serial rapist on the campus of the University of Missouri-Columbia; the accidental shooting of my boyfriend by an alcoholic Vietnam vet with post-traumatic stress disorder; acting as the primary caretaker for my sister-in-law as she died a slow, lingering death from non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma; the death of my beloved father.
But none of those tragedies had the lingering effect on me as the heartbreak of losing my job. To me, my job was not only part of my identity, it was my purpose. Childhood friends recall me carrying around a reporter’s notebook in grade school, interviewing my classmates. I wanted to be a reporter for as long as I can remember.
The desperate economy combined with the demise of newspapers made finding a new job virtually impossible. Well-meaning friends tried to tell me I needed to find a new career; I needed to reinvent myself. But that’s easier said than done when journalism is all you’ve ever known and done, all I’ve ever wanted to do.
I began applying for any jobs that had the words “reporter,” “editor” or “writer” in the job description. A year later, I’ve applied for 124 jobs and have gotten exactly two face-to-face interviews. My prospects seem gloomy, and I’m rapidly losing hope.
But there’s been one bright spot during these frustrating months.
I became a new mother.
I fell in love with her when I saw her adoption photo and I knew she had to be a part of our family despite the fact that I’d just been laid off and money was tight.
Just 6 months old, she had curly red hair nearly the color of mine and big, coffee-colored eyes that matched my husband’s.
She was the perfect baby, never mind the fact that the curly red hair covered her entire body and she walked on four legs and showed her pleasure by wagging her tail.
I’d always wanted a poodle, and she was available for adoption for the cost of a vet visit and shots.
In the 10 months that she’d been ours, little Mini, short for Mignon, which means “petite” in French, has been my saving grace.
She’s better than Prozac. Just seeing her greet me with her funny little dance is enough to cast me from my doldrums. When the depression hits, she seems to know, curling her little body into mine as I softly cry.
The tears rarely last long. Her antics usually leave me laughing as she grabs her toothbrush and begins brushing her own teeth or teases her older brother, Oliver, the Yorkshire terrier, by stealing away whatever toy with which he happens to be playing.
I can’t help but wonder if this 5-pound puff was heaven-sent specifically to get me through this difficult period of my life.
I know God must have a plan for me. Surely, it’s not my destiny to sit idle when I have so much to give. But it’s nice to know I don’t have to wait all by myself.