About Corvo

I've reached the age when friends are having children. Last year, I was at the age when friends were getting married. Some older than me, some younger. Somehow everything becomes so much more serious. Or rather, in a way, more final. Decisions we make now affect the rest of our lives. But that's some bullshit thinking again, because pretty much everything we've ever done (or not) affects our future. Studying an additional semester because you didn't fancy that one exam? Bam, different job, different friends, different life. Didn't study at all, but did something else? Or studied somewhere else? Same thing.

So why this article? Precisely because things are getting more serious. Because suddenly your decisions no longer only affect your own life, but also those of others. Of your partner, of your offspring. Or in my case, another living being. Almost exactly a year ago (yes, I'm three days late), a four-legged friend came into my life ... or rather he crawled. As if born out of a van at a rest stop on the autobahn near Bonn, Corvo aka Macika was unleashed on Germany and on me.

I remember exactly what it was like: my brother and I had arrived late, with squealing tires and a freshly toothpaste-sprinkled car. Some to-be-owners had already picked up their doggos, while others were waiting like a strange cult, gathered around a white Sprinter, which had dozens of cage boxes mounted on its floor like a grocer's store. In them, frightened dogs, dazzled by the sunlight and the smells, stared out timidly.

I was super nervous, after all I had only ever seen Corvo in pictures and short videos. When my name was called, I walked forward and attached the leash to the turquoise harness with a handful of dog, dangling intimidatingly. On my way back from the van, I tried to exude calm to appease this creature - stumbled and fell. Corvo had laid down in front of me, almost thrown himself to my feet, and presented his belly to me in fear ... and I presented my butt to the assembled pack of prospective dog owners. A good show!

A bit of cooked chicken, hesitant attempts at walking him with the leash and a drive home later we were sitting in my apartment. And suddenly I realized: So this is it. This is what you always wanted, and now it's here. Was it what I had imagined? No. Absolutely not. I hadn't gotten a lap dog, but a six-month-old puppy who knew nothing - absolutely nothing. No cars, no doors, not even reflections in the mirror. And he smelled awful.

Two days I had to wait for the shampoo to be delivered because I didn't want to leave him alone. During this time, we became a little closer. I felt his gratitude, his voraciousness and the effect of a giardia infection. Rarely has my garden been watered as well as during the time I had to dilute Corvo's fertilizing methods. It wasn't easy. Every walk was a new challenge, for every obstacle I took my time and showed him that he didn't need to be afraid. So we worked our way forward. First cars, then windows, dustbins, garbage cans, scaffolding, scooters, bikes, people, dogs, other animals, etc.

One evening, when he jumped at me happily and we played briefly, I had a fit of laughter. And then I cried. From happiness? No, because I knew I had a lot of work ahead of me. But no self-pity either. I had what I wanted and yet didn't have it at all. This moment that I had dreamed of, that my life would now change - it didn't come. Instead, it was a process. A development that is now starting to bear fruit after the first year: I go out twice a day - that's twice more than before. I organize my life according to how I can combine my dog's and my personal everyday life. Just little things, nothing radical.

But I don't see the process in me so much as in Corvo. With every walk that goes more smoothly, I'm happy and proud of the little one. When he's happy, I'm happy, when he's scared, I try to calm him down. And if he thinks it's necessary to bark at the whole backyard again, I give him a reprimand. Through him, I see the direct effects of my actions. Every time he flinches in fear, I know that it was because of the shelf that fell on him at night in the third week - because I had parked his water underneath it. This trauma is my fault. At the same time, I can see how happy he is. That's also my fault. And every time he reacts more calmly, it's because of the security I try to provide him with.

Back to the beginning: it's not the decisions that become more final, it's their after-effects. The older we get, the more likely we are to reconsider the consequences - and that's probably why growing up is said to make you more serious, to make you lose the fun. I now know that it's not about no longer making decisions lightly. It's about the fact that we now have more life experience to know the consequences. Of course, I can knock back 12 tequila shots today, but I also know roughly what's coming up the next. Of course I can give Corvo the grilled sausage today, but then what? Next time too? And what will his stomach do with it?

None of this is news. I still thought it was worth sharing because not everyone has a dog, is married or has kids. If all these insights don't help anyone, that's fine by me. I have Corvo. And I'm looking forward to the next few years ... maybe without the fear of buses and trains.