My Dog Saved My Life Too, Daddy.

When my father was aged somewhere between three and five years old he fell off a boat some place and into the water.

He never remembered being especially frightened - I suppose at that age your concept of impending doom is necessarily limited - but he does remember thinking how pretty the bubbles of air looked as they escaped his little body and made their inexorable journey to the surface.

Just as well they did, really, as it was this stream of silver, like blobs of mercury rising, that allowed the family's German Shepherd dog to locate him after it had dived into the water after him. Prior to that my father and "the dog" (it never had a name that he could remember) hadn't been on especially close terms, but the animal certainly felt this little human was important enough to leap in after and rescue. Apparently none of the other people on the boat had even had a chance to realise little David had fallen in.

Nothing so romantic (?) has ever happened to me as far as I can recall, but I do sometimes look at my dog and wish fervently that I was a religious woman so that I could give thanks to some higher being for her being here with us.

You see, in many small ways, depression can kill you. That's how I felt yesterday - that I was dying - of boredom, of self-loathing, of self-pity, of irritation and frustration. I could feel blackness closing in on me just as surely as the cold green waters of the canal pressed down on my father's head. I feel that people who do not suffer from depression might find it hard to understand what these emotions are like - after all, we most of us probably battle with one or two of these sets of feelings at least twice a week - but with depression, one feels strangely incapable of fighting back against the slings and arrows. All you can do is look upwards through the waters and watch as your life bubbles away from you.

My dog seemed to save me yesterday. Just as I was reaching a dangerous flashpoint, I decided to take her out for a walk. I didn't especially want to - it was cold, raining, windy, but I got myself suited and booted nonetheless and dragged myself and the dog out of the house.

Forty minutes or so later, I had returned to life. I felt like I'd been bathing in a wash of colours and smells and sounds. This is how my dog saves my life. Walking out with her allows me a glimpse of the world as she experiences it, allowing me a fresh perspective on what the world is up to whilst I am busy wallowing. I have long since given up berating myself or feeling guilty about suffering from depression - it isn't my fault after all - but I do still consider the process to be akin to "wallowing".

The dog surged ahead of me and pulled me up out of the mire, as I clung on to her leash.

I'm only glad she didn't try and give me the Kiss of Life. She is a Basset Hound, after all. Could have been very messy.