My Name Is Luna, and I Have a Problem
Hi. My name is Luna. And I am addicted to the purple ball.
There. I said it.
I've been told the first step is admitting you have a problem. But here's the thing — I don't have a problem. I have a ball. A beautiful, magnificent, perfectly-sized purple ball that bounces at just the right height and rolls at just the right speed and I would chase it into the sun if Mom would let me. Which, for the record, she almost did.
Twice.
It Started Innocently Enough
They always say that, don't they? It started innocently. One throw. One fetch. One gloriously satisfying crunch as it hit my mouth mid-air. I brought it back. She threw it again. And just like that — I was gone.
We were at my Aunt's place, the backyard stretching out before me like a field of pure possibility. The sun was warm. The grass was soft. The ball was purple. I was in heaven. Absolute, unconditional, tail-wagging heaven.
Hours passed. I didn't notice. Why would I? My body was saying go, go, go and honestly, who am I to argue with my body? I'm a dog. This is literally what I was built for.
I came in the pool a few times. Not to rest — don't be ridiculous. Just to cool down enough to go back out and do it all again.
The Morning After
I don't really want to talk about what happened next.
Okay fine.
I woke up the following morning and something was... off. My legs felt like they'd been replaced with wet sandbags. My eyes were doing that thing where they open halfway and then sort of give up. Mom put my food bowl down and I looked at it like it had personally offended me.
I spent most of that day horizontal.
Mom called it a doggie hangover. I prefer to think of it as my body processing an extraordinary athletic achievement. But yes. Fine. I was wrecked. Completely and utterly wrecked. I needed a full day just to feel like myself again.
Did I learn my lesson?
Reader, I did not.
The Second Time
We went back to my Aunt's. The ball was there. The yard was there. The sun — merciless and blazing — was there. And I, against all evidence and prior experience, went absolutely feral for it all over again.
Same story. Same pool breaks that were really just pit stops. Same hours of pure, delirious joy that my body had absolutely no business sustaining.
Same next morning on the couch, refusing breakfast, reconsidering all my choices.
In My Defense
Here's what I need you to understand. When the ball is in the air, there is no yesterday. There is no tomorrow. There is no concept of physical limitations. There is only the ball, the trajectory, and the absolute certainty that I am the only creature on this earth capable of catching it.
This is not recklessness. This is presence. Living in the moment. Psychologists charge a lot of money to teach humans how to do what I do naturally every single time that ball leaves Mom's hand.
You're welcome.
A Note on Addiction (the real talk part)
Now — and I say this with all the dignity I can muster while lying upside down on the couch — addiction, even the kind that looks like fun, deserves a little honesty.
The real thing is that I genuinely don't know when to stop. I don't listen to my body when it's tired. I override the signals. I push past the point of joy into something that costs me the whole next day. And while my version is fetch and a purple ball, the pattern? Not listening to your body. Chasing the high past the point of reason. The crash that follows?
That's real. For a lot of people, it's a lot more serious than a day on the couch.
If you or someone you love is struggling with addiction — the actual kind — please know that help exists, and reaching out is the bravest fetch you'll ever make.
(I have been advised by legal counsel — that's Aunt the Judge — to clarify that I am a dog and this is satire. I also want it on record that I would absolutely do it all again.)