One of the blogs I follow is about a rescue dog and her life since her rescue. I’m an animal lover at heart (with a few exceptions — I’m not much on the rodent world), and used to live in a place where people routinely dumped their animals. Some of those animals were extremely sick or aggressive, so of course, there was always fear when an unfamiliar dog would end up in our yard.

And then there were the animals who we were lucky enough to enjoy their second lives. I remember coming home, one day, pulling into the carport and walking up on the back porch to discover a dog laying in the seat of our Adirondack chair, making himself totally at home. He spooked me, so I tried to run him off my porch — and he wouldn’t go. Instead, he looked up at me with baleful hound eyes and a tail that thumped against the chair, almost like an “I’m sorry, but this is so comfy and I don’t want to move!”

We named him Buddy. He became a community dog, and he was the sweetest, most well-behaved stray I’d ever seen. He was so calm that I could leave meat on a gas grill side table and walk off, with him right next to it, and KNOW he wouldn’t jump up and swipe it. He waited patiently for us to feed him — and then he’d run over to a neighbor’s house who also fed him. (Dogs are always opportunists at heart!) For several years, until we moved and lost track of Buddy’s antics, he chased rabbits, cruised the nearby properties, dragged things home out of the woods, warned us of intruders, and enjoyed his newfound life. (I’ll add that we lived in the country and everyone approved of Buddy. We also all had different names for him.)

Before Buddy, there was Sam. I caught sight of her in my Rose of Sharon bushes; a beautiful long hair cat with Siamese markings. I put out food for her to draw her out, but she refused to come to me. And then, one day as she was retreating into the bushes to hide, I managed to touch the end of her tail. And at that moment, it was ON. She turned around immediately, meowed an inquiring “what?”, and came to me, brushing up against my extended hand.

Sam (short for Samantha) became my mother’s cat and lived the rest of her long life being spoiled rotten and loved. She was sweet, healthy, affectionate, and the kind of cat that wouldn’t challenge you for your food; she would only eat cat food. (If you’ve ever been a cat owner, you know how rare that is!)

Which brings us to the blog I mentioned — Charlie Bravo – The Motorcycle Rescue Dog Story (You can also follow Charlie at this Facebook link). It’s worth your time to read, but be forewarned: it’s an emotional journey. Briefly, a father/son team of motorcyclists found a stray dog, left to die in a dog crate along a road not too awfully far from here. The dog was skin and bones and had tried to chew her way out of the crate. There is a happy ending, and the message I received was clear: we all have cages, often of our own making.

What can happen for you if you release yourself from your own cage?

I am — and have — been a cage-builder. My own father built my first cage, but even after I managed to break myself out of it, I built my own. I try to remain conscious of telling myself “I can’t do that”. Limiting myself is how I trapped myself in the first place, but sometimes remaining trapped seems safe because it’s the devil we know. I know regaining the previous 140 pounds I lost was much about embracing the safety I thought it gave me.

A cage? A wall, as I spoke of last week? We imagine those boundaries protect us, but it’s only our insecurities that lead us to believe that. Choosing to live without limits can be one of the most daunting tasks of all, but like all of the examples above, second lives can be the best lives. While those animals were forced into second lives that they didn’t choose, we as humans have a choice to uncage ourselves.

When I first took on the idea of losing weight, again, I didn’t think I could do it. I had to show myself I was capable and step out of the cage I’d built by hiding behind my own fat; it became a convenient excuse and then a debilitating reason to insulate myself against the world. I excluded myself on purpose and told myself all the things that I could be or do if only I wasn’t so fat; but when yearning for that imaginary world I’d built that would only be mine if I were thin, I refused to step beyond what was comfortable.

I also hear it all the time from other people; they may ask me what I’ve done to lose weight, and their reactions of “oh, I could never do that!” show me, more than anything, the cages they’ve become comfortable with. We’re capable of so much more than we give ourselves credit for; I learn this about myself every day. After all, no one has to do the same things I’ve done in order to be successful, but they do have to put in the effort — break out of the cages they’ve built — and consider taking the risks.