It's hard to believe it's been three months today since the morning my mum walked into my bedroom and said we'd been given two weeks notice. That moment somehow feels simultaneously as though it was "just the other day" but also like it was a lifetime ago. In the following days I dreaded ending up homeless and running out of money, but I tried to tell myself it wouldn't come to that. We'd always managed to get a place to live and another job every other time we'd been moved on, why would this time be different? That's the question I am still asking myself. Why is this time different?
And so we enter into week eleven of being without a house and without a job. I feel like people have forgotten that we are still homeless. Our tents are failing under constant use. They aren't designed for this. Life out here has settled into a monotonous drag, with every day bringing the same routines, the same events. It's hard to stay motivated and to stay hopeful. We've applied for so many jobs but nobody is willing to take us on. Most of the time they don't even bother replying at all. And without a job, we won't be getting a house either.
We went to an agility trial again earlier this month, finally. Skuggi was so good, and we got a third and fourth place. For a while, I could forget what my life is really like. A brief moment of happiness. But then we go back "home." To the tents and the cold and the wind.
There are only five months left of the year and we have nothing. We've lost everything we had, except each other. My family and my pets are everything. We are keeping each other going and the animals are often the only bright spots in a day. Running agility courses with Skuggi, or taking him into town for his assistance dog training. Riding Logan. Sparkie's crazy zoomies during her walks. My pet rat Pixie happily climbing onto my shoulder of her own free will. But some days are still so hard.
