Several months ago and in the middle of a whole lot going on, the dogs and I loaded up and moved back to downtown Salt Lake City. I mentioned a week or so ago that I’ve moved five times in four years, but I failed to count some more and extend the time to a more reasonable five year—bringing the grandish total to seven moves in five years. In case you were wondering, that is something that is very, very wrong.

The last time I lived on the Hill was back in the beginning of 2004. It was my first solo apartment, except in a house filled with awkward relationship—the landlord wasn’t married to his wife, but instead lived in an apartment in the upstairs of her home. But he was the landlord? Sounds like someone has some authority issues. Also, apparently had some issues with leaving dirty workgloves in my apartment atop a load of CLEAN UNDERWEAR on my couch without notice or follow-up of any kind—except, you know, until I tenderly placed the gloves at his doorstep with a note on which was written a hastily-scrawled, “YOURS?” I managed a raised-brow lowering of the eyes my coworkers call the “Ashley Look,” when he messily attempted to explain the circumstances which allowed him unannounced access to my apartment and, apparently, my drawers.

(They call it the “Ashley Look” and laugh, but are wondering if maybe someone else can go to get lunch next time because they’re downright tired of eating spit. I just tell them to stir up their soups real good, and that maybe someday, the service industry WILL RECOGNIZE WHO IS WRITING THEIR PAYCHECKS.)

(I get that from my Mom, FYI.)

My situation has changed a bit since that first apartment alone. For example, I no longer have unlimited credit and no longer expect several boxes from GAP.com to flow from UPS and find themselves upon my doorstep at any given point in the week. I do still, miraculously, have my car, even with the bumped-up door and pole-cracked bumper, but it hasn’t seen the light of day minus dog food on the floor in quite some time. I’ve changed jobs thrice, and find myself on top of my own contentedness more often than not. I don’t dread phone calls from my family, and seek out conversation from my mother several times a week. I still struggle, but can find my way out more often than not.

It’s a good place to be.

I’m far from coming full circle in four years, but it seems just about right to be back in the neighborhood at this stage in my life, leaving lots of baggage behind and bringing two pups along for the ride. Besides, Ethel just downright giggles every time I let her loose on the Capitol lawn.

I am not sure I’ll ever be quite ready to talk about what happened a week ago on Wednesday-thru-Friday. I will, however, share something I came to know, intimately. I don’t think you ever quite know how a loyal pet can affect your life until you are suddenly struck with the unequivocal realization. I looked frantically around the room Wednesday morning, sobbing, and trying to think of the least painful way to downright end it all, when my eye caught Ethel’s—and I knew she knew things were bad, by the way that wrinkle above her left eye was creased against her brow—and I shuddered and cried aloud, “But then who would take care of you?”

And she saved me. She flat-out talked me down from the ledge and I buried my head into her puppy mullet, knowing I’d never have the courage to do anything so final, but also finding myself acutely aware of how not alone I would always be with her burrowed in the covers at my side.