I have come to an ugly realization. Gulp. First step is the hardest, Palmer. Admit you have a problem.
I've raised Ricky from Better off Dead - in dog form.
For those of you who don't know who Ricky is - I'll ask you to imagine the most socially inept oaf in a plaid jacket you can get your head around. The kid on the playground who eats sand and tells the other kids she's from another planet, in robot-talk like that kid from Spellbound.
Meet Poet. 
I came upon a tiny puppy eight years ago while I was shopping at the Hollywood Farmer's Market. She was teensy, had floppy ears and I couldn't resist. I took her home that day and we've been inseparable ever since. But I'm beginning to notice that we've been inseparable for some not so good reasons. As in, we've retarded each other to the point where no one else will hang out with us.
I've tried everything. I've tried dog training, socializing her, dog parks, therapy (for me) - the gamut. It always ends the same - we shuffle back into our apartment, slightly rejected, but happy to be home. I know it's me. She's a sensitive dog, and can absolutely sense my trepidation at all social gatherings. By "sense", I mean I tighten her leash, bring her back towards me and apologizing all the while. Social gatherings are bad enough when it's just a bunch of humans standing around making small talk. Add other dogs and you might as well just not invite us at all.
All our chickens came home to roost last month. I had to go on book tour - and I couldn't leave Poet with my sister, as I usually do. She and her husband and daughters were going away on vacation at the same time. How could they take a vacation in the summertime? Couldn't they have checked with me first?
At first, I was in denial. Something would come up. My sister would cancel their vacation. Something would...yeah, nothing did. Cut to: two weeks before my trip to Dallas and there were no plans made for Poet.
I jumped in and began an exhaustive search for just the right situation for Poet. But, every time I mentioned my predicament to those around me, I got the same response: The person would listen, try to be supportive, but as I rambled on about Poet's routines and my own abandonment issues, maybe asking for a tissue to wipe away streams of tears, they would roll their eyes/look out the window and in the end simply say, "She's a dog."
In the end, I found a great cage-free place here in Pasadena. There was crying (me) and bolting for the door (Poet) on the day of the big drop off. There was even a pink, monogrammed Land's End bag with Poet's name on it that contained little baggies of organic food and treats, her favorite blankie (along with all of my issues which were now on display for anyone and everyone to see).
Oh well, we both survived - issues and all.