I Was Newly Divorced. My Dog Helped Me Find Love Again

I first met Andrew at a cozy inn on a chilly autumn night in New Hampshire. "There's a fly in your drink," he said, pointing to my cocktail.

I thought it was a pick-up line, but there really was a fruit fly in my glass slurping up all my whiskey.

Who was this man I had never seen before? Maybe his wife had died, and he was back on the market. The pickings in my town were so slim that a friend had told me I should read the obituaries if I ever wanted to get a date.

Andrew looked like a college professor, with his gray hair and blue quirky glasses. I wondered what his astrological sign was. Confident enough to be out on his own talking to strangers. Aries? (He turned out to be a Gemini, like me).

"How come I've never seen you here before?" I asked.

"I never went out when I was married," he said. "I'm getting divorced."

I knew all about that. Divorce can make you do crazy things. That was how I ended up moving to my dog's hometown of Hanover, New Hampshire, from New York City. What kind of person does that? I'll tell you who: Someone whose marriage has fallen apart.

I had moved to Hanover after my divorce because my dog Ronan was from there. Ronan is a Glen of Imaal terrier, the cutest dog breed you've never heard of. My ex-husband and I had gotten him a year into our marriage when we hit a rough patch.

No one ever told me that the first year of marriage could be the hardest. It certainly was for me. My ex-husband was worried about impressing his new boss, and I feared that the longer we waited to have children, the harder it would be. I even froze my eggs to buy myself more time.

I had hoped Ronan would bring us closer together, but it actually did the opposite. My ex-husband walked Ronan in the morning, and I took him out in the evening. I dropped Ronan off at the groomer's. He picked him up.

By the time we landed in a mediator's office a couple of years later, all we had to decide on was—who would get custody of Ronan? Easy answer: Me (the dedicated mother who put shamrocks on Ronan's head to celebrate St. Patrick's Day and his Irish heritage).

Another thing no one ever told me about divorce: Signing the papers isn't as hard as the actual process of starting over, of figuring out how to reinvent yourself.

I was in my mid-30s and had not only outgrown my marriage but other aspects of my life, too. My work as a corporate copywriter wasn't exactly sparking joy, neither was my mouse-infested apartment in Brooklyn.

That's why I decided to move to Hanover. To everyone around me, it looked like an impulsive decision, but it made perfect sense to me. When life doesn't go your way, sometimes you have to look to your dog for a little direction.

I decided to move in with the couple who gave me Ronan. They were retired empty nesters who had five dogs, a fenced-in yard and lived right down the street from King Arthur Bakery, where I could get my carb fix.

I stayed afloat by dog-sitting and freelancing for the local newspaper. I wrote quirky stories about beekeepers, apple-picking, and deer-hunting.

I loved seeing my name in print and the adrenaline rush of beating an impossible deadline, the thrill of finding a story in an unexpected place.

Dating in a small town was as tough as in the city. The dating apps were so useless that I was getting awfully close to putting an ad for myself on the bulletin board at the grocery store. Anytime I was out and about, I told people that I was single and looking.

One day, three older women approached me at one of my favorite coffee shops and asked if I would take their picture. I obliged, but not before asking if they knew any single men.

"Any single straight men?" one of the women clarified.

"Oh, honey," she said, laughing. "This isn't a good town for single women your age."

I began to think that my best shot was Pine, the bar at the Hanover Inn. Bars take on more meaning in small towns. Pine was Hanover's local watering hole, where L.L. Bean-wearing locals gathered around the fireplace to gossip about who was doing what (or who was doing whom).

I often walked up the street to chat there with strangers, just like I did the night I met Andrew.

Divorce was one of the first topics he and I covered. We had no problem discussing serious matters, like children, and what it was like for me to be diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in my twenties.

I felt comfortable with him, like all my cosmic baggage had finally aligned with someone else's.

At the end of the night, I swiped Andrew's phone off the bar, programmed my number in it, and shoved it back in his hand. "I hope you like dogs," I said.

"I do!" he said. "I used to have a Lab, but my ex got her."

A couple of days later, we went on a coffee date at a local farm that sold lattes with foam-shaped hearts in teacups. At that point, it had been a year since I moved to Hanover. Maybe I was right to stick it out that long. Maybe my luck was finally changing.

At least that's what I thought until Andrew started crying over his divorce at the picnic table. I drove away that day thinking there was a good chance that it would all amount to nothing, but knowing what Andrew was going through made it a little easier for me to take a leap.

I had always thought that if love ever came along for me again, I'd jump right in, but fear crept in often. I worried that Andrew and I would fall in love, and it would go away, like it did in my marriage.

I tried my best to take our relationship slow, but I wanted to spend all my time with him.

After a few weeks together, Ronan was so comfortable with Andrew that he no longer barked when Andrew walked in the door. I always agreed to get together with Andrew—for drinks, for coffee, even when he invited me to see his friend Mark in hospice.

We had planned to visit Mark for an hour and then grab dinner after, but the night took an unexpected turn when Mark died.

Talk about an awkward date. If we had come an hour later, we might have missed everything. And yet, the events brought us closer together in ways I couldn't have ever imagined.

The next day, I went out and got coffees for Andrew and Mark's family members as they discussed which casket to get. At the wake, I eyed Andrew from across the room as he consoled family members and friends.

The experience showed me a side of him I might not have had the chance to see so early in our relationship, how loyal and dependable he was.

The first year of our relationship was a little bumpy as Andrew managed his divorce. "You'll be a different person in a year," I said to him often. He didn't believe me, but it was true.

Divorce can make you crazy, but it can broaden your horizons, too. It certainly did for me.

I never pictured myself enjoying life in a small town, but it feels like I have a much bigger life here than I did in the city. I grow my own pumpkins, volunteer at a wildlife center, and meet once a week with a close group of friends to talk about writing.

Ronan is still alive and well, and at night, he sleeps on our bed and tries to out-snore Andrew.

People often ask how I ended up living in Hanover. "My dog is from here," I like to say. I had thought my move would be temporary, but six years have passed, and I'm still here.

Most mornings, I'll grab breakfast from a café near the same park bench where I took Ronan's first puppy photos. I'll check out books from the library near the same hotel where I stayed with Ronan before returning to New York City.

Back then, I thought I was just going home with a new dog. Little did I know that Ronan's hometown was about to become mine.

Betsy Vereckey is a journalist and essayist living in Vermont. She has recently completed a memoir.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.

Do you have a unique experience or personal story to share? Email the My Turn team at myturn@newsweek.com