And then there was Sunny. He was brought in, almost as an afterthought, to make another puppy seem more appealing. Another six-month-old dog, described as “second tier,” Sunny had missed out on basic potty training and lacked early human interaction. Yet, the moment he saw me, his clumsy enthusiasm was undeniable. He tripped over his own paws, his brow furrowed in earnest concentration as he tried to decipher the simple word, “sit.” In that instant, I sensed a vulnerability in this little creature, a feeling that he hadn’t yet formed a true bond with anyone, and was brimming with love ready to be given. I was instantly drawn to him, as if pulled by an invisible force. I knew I had to take him home. And so, he became Sunny.
The name suited his bright disposition and golden fur, but truthfully, there was a deeper meaning. I had just navigated a winding path to settle in the often-gray, misty city of Seattle. Just months before, I had left a demanding magazine job in New York City, feeling completely burned out. I spent the following months traveling, seeking respite in places as diverse as Russia and Egypt. Eventually, I returned to the States and accepted an exciting new opportunity in the Pacific Northwest. Moving to a place where I knew absolutely no one was daunting. Adding to the usual anxieties of relocation, I had also been managing depression for nearly a decade. I was acutely aware of how profoundly unfiltered sunlight impacted my mental well-being. Perhaps, I hoped, Sunny could bring some much-needed light into my life too.
In the years that followed, Sunny blossomed into more than just a pet; he became my steadfast Travel Companion. With him comfortably settled in the back of my Subaru wagon, we embarked on exploring a part of the country that was entirely new to me. We started with small adventures close to home. Within our first couple of months together, Sunny and I ventured into the tide pools at Golden Gardens Park during low tide. Despite the biting cold water, we discovered incredible sights: giant moon snails, baseball-sized, and ochre starfish as large as my hand. As Sunny enthusiastically sniffed the interiors of empty shells, I experienced, for the first of countless times, the sensation of saltwater lightly coating his fur. Weekends were for leisurely strolls through the vibrant Ballard Farmer’s Market, where we’d gather bouquets of fresh flowers, unusual goose eggs, and the sweet, succulent meat of Dungeness crab. Armed with whitefish tacos and crispy fried clams from the casual Little Chinook’s stand at Fishermen’s Terminal, I would find a bench overlooking the marina. Sunny would contentedly watch the ducks bobbing on the water, and I still vividly recall a boat named Knotty Girl gently rocking in the harbor.
