Gabi Rome

It's 2011 and I'm walking down the hallway of my apartment building.

I'm headed to the management office because I've decided I need to get a dog.

I just moved into this apartment building, and it is not pet friendly.

But I've done my research.

I know all the laws in Michigan about emotional support animals.

I've saved a month of my rent as collateral against damages.

And if that doesn't work, I didn't put concealer over the deep purple bags under my eyes.

It's about 88 days into me getting maybe three hours a night of sleep, and I'm just hoping my sob story tugs at my landlord's heartstrings.

You see, about three months prior, I was robbed while I was home.

It started with a knock on my door, which in the grand scheme of things is a very courteous way to start a crime.

A man told me to get on my knees and face the wall.

I was robbed.

I called the police.

I filed a report.

I moved apartments.

I spent my nights vigilantly lying awake listening.

And I spent my days having panic attacks every time a friendly neighbor knocked on my door to introduce themselves.

With a dog.

I could train it to listen for me, and I could get some rest.

My landlord was like, oh my God, no, absolutely not.