itsShar.com

Let me be very transparent. I am not a “pet person.” I don’t melt when I see puppies. I don’t let anything with fur get on my couch, my bed, my kitchen counters, or my spirit. I’ve always been a “watch animals from a safe distance on National Geographic” type of woman. Especially monkeys. I can watch monkeys for HOURS. They fascinate me. But in my house? Absolutely not.

And yet here I am… with a whole Chihuahua named Bambi.

Not by accident. Not kidnapped. Not inherited. I actually got this dog. Me. Shar. A woman who doesn’t even like fur touching her.

Sometimes I look at her like: “How did YOU end up here? How did WE end up here? Who approved this storyline?”

Because Bambi is obsessed with me. I don’t know what Google says about dog attachment styles, but her style is toxic, clingy, and dramatic. She follows me everywhere. Stares at me when I cook. Breathes behind me like a tiny furry stalker. Looks at me like I’m her whole reason for living. And honestly? It makes me uncomfortable.

She’s so affectionate it feels like she’s trying to heal her childhood trauma through me. Meanwhile I’m the one healing MY trauma, and now I have a dog who wants cuddles while I’m trying to deep breathe through my own problems.

And look… I’m very Black when it comes to animals. She is not on my couch. She is not in my bed. She is not licking me. She is not licking plates. She is not licking the air in my direction. Boundaries. Hard boundaries.

People with pets be letting their dogs lick their mouths, sleep on their heads, sit on the dining table like a toddler. Not in this house. This is not “white family on a farm” energy this is “don’t touch my blankets” energy.

And because of that, sometimes I think Bambi is living a miserable life. Like… is this dog okay? Is she living in emotional poverty? Does she think I’m cold? Does she tell other dogs at the park, “My mom loves me but… not too much”? Sometimes I swear she looks at me like, “Damn, even SHE doesn’t like me?” And I’m like, “I DO like you, I just don’t like… licking.”

But here’s the twist. Here’s where it gets spiritual. Because I realized something. Bambi is me. I am Bambi. We are each other’s karmic mirror.

She wants love, affection, reassurance, closeness. She is literally the version of me from my old relationships. I used to be the one begging for love, trying to cuddle someone emotionally unavailable, staring at men while they were “busy,” hoping for affection like a fool.

And now the universe said: “Oh you want healing? Cool. Here is a tiny dog who acts EXACTLY like you used to. Good luck.”

Bambi is my karmic payback. Perhaps in her past life she was a cheating man. A lying, bare minimum, emotionally unavailable man. And now she reincarnated as a chihuahua stuck with ME a woman with boundaries so strong even my dog needs therapy.

And I love her. I do. But in a structured way. In a “you can sit near me, not on me” way. In a “I’ll pet you twice, don’t get excited” way. In a “I feed you, I protect you, I respect you, but stay off my furniture” way.

She’s my little twin flame. My karmic soulmate. My shadow work in dog form. She wants love. I run. She clings. I hide. She cries. I pretend I don’t hear. It’s a whole spiritual drama.

And yet… when she curls up near my feet, or watches me with those big eyes like I’m the moon and sun combined, my heart softens a little. Because she doesn’t ask for much. Just love. Just safety. Just attention. The same things I’ve always wanted.

So maybe we’re perfect for each other… two traumatized women healing in the same apartment one with a Satisfyer and childhood wounds, the other with big eyes and abandonment issues.

She’s my little karmic roommate. My furry shadow. My healing partner. My dog I didn’t want but clearly needed.

Love Shar