I used to measure my life in empty bottles. Now, I measure it in dog treats and sunrise walks.

Rock bottom? I lived there. It was like a slow sink into a quicksand of vodka and regret. My only constant companion was the next drink, always promising relief but delivering nothing but shame and foggy mornings.

Then came the day I flushed it all. Not some grand epiphany, just a quiet “fuck this” as I poured bottle after bottle down the drain. Cold turkey. Because when you’re drowning, you don’t wade out slowly – you thrash for the surface and gasp for air.

Those first weeks weren’t great. My body screamed for booze like a junkie in withdrawal. Sleep was a cruel joke. It was difficult. But, I rediscovered an old friend: Max, my neglected golden retriever.

Max didn’t care about my shakes or my mood swings. He just wanted walks and belly rubs. So we walked. At first, just stumbling around the block, me gritting my teeth against cravings, Max patiently matching my zombie pace.

But something strange happened. I started noticing things. The way dew clings to grass like tiny diamonds. The smell of fresh bread from the bakery down the street. The satisfied “whump” of Max flopping into a perfectly sunny spot.

Our walks got longer. My steps got steadier. Max’s tail wagged harder. We explored every alley, every park. I learned the names of the bodega cats and the rhythm of the neighborhood waking up.

I started eating real food again, not just handfuls of stale chips. I dusted off my old running shoes, following Max’s lead as he chased squirrels. My body, once a prison of addiction, became something I actually enjoyed inhabiting.

But the real magic? It was in the quiet moments. Watching the sunset from our favorite hill, Max’s head in my lap. Laughing at his ridiculous “play bow” to a disinterested pigeon. Feeling truly present for the first time in years.

My relationships changed too. I called my mom without an ulterior motive. I remembered birthdays. I actually listened when people talked, instead of just waiting for my turn to speak (or drink).

Don’t get me wrong. Some days still suck. Sobriety isn’t a magic cure-all. But now, instead of drowning those feelings in vodka, I lace up my shoes and hit the trail with Max. Because I’ve learned that the best therapy has four legs and a wagging tail.

So yeah, my dog saved me from alcoholism. Weird, I know. But if you’re out there, thinking you’re too far gone, remember this: sometimes, salvation comes with a wet nose and a sloppy kiss. It beats the hell out of any bar crawl anyway, that’s for damn sure.

It’s time for my sunset walk with Max now. Because these days, the only thing I’m addicted to is chasing squirrels and making up for lost time.