Private Lives: Personal essays on the news of the world and the news of our lives.

On our second date, eight months before my nervous breakdown, I met her 85-pound pit bull mix, Pavlov. I’d just parked my blue motor scooter in her driveway, feeling jittery but intent to woo, when I noticed the beast galloping across the lawn at me — eyes wide, hackles raised and an I’m-going-to-disfigure-you huff with every trampling of the grass.

The woman I was courting screamed for Pavlov to stop. Two steps before gnashing the helmet that I’d extended in front of me as a shaky jaw-blocking shield, Pavlov cut a hard right, slowed to a canter, then trotted back to his apologetic mother, while keeping an eye on me over his shoulder. He was warning me: Just keep in mind how absolutely destructible you are.

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I ended up falling in love with that dog’s owner. But Pavlov — I didn’t like him all that much. He took up so much room: His gargantuan head either nudged me out of his way or cornered me into extremely stressful cuddling situations; he loudly chased and killed things in his sleep; he auto-fellated in plain sight; and his viperous gas poisoned our airspace at 15-minute intervals.

Months passed. My girlfriend and I spent more time and most nights together. I attended two classes a week for my M.F.A. program and worked on my novel — a project that had been the nerve center of my existential meaning for the past two and a half years.

At her place, Pavlov and I playacted a sort of fraternal affection. When I took him outside on the Austin streets, however, I lost track of who was walking whom. He yanked me in all directions and I found myself hissing at him: “Make an effort, man! Do you not see these other people you’re cutting off on the sidewalk? Honestly, you’re exactly the kind of inconsiderate cretin I would never trust.” I spoke to him as if he were a person because of his eyes. There are two types of dog: the kind with dog-eyes, and the kind with eyes that indicate they are not dogs at all, but humans hiding inside a dog’s body. Pavlov is unmistakably a strange man wearing a dog costume.

I dreamed of setting him free in the woods by Lady Bird Lake and telling my girlfriend he’d gone AWOL while she was at work. I rationalized the plan by imagining the triumphant journey I knew Pavlov would have — capering around Texas on his own, snapping rabbits’ necks, gobbling up lizards and sticks, wading the Colorado River, pleasuring himself in parking lots. But I didn’t have the stomach to break my girlfriend’s heart. She’d had him for eight years, since bringing him home from the shelter the same day he was to be put down. They said he’d been found roaming the streets, filthy, wounded, emaciated. She could weep at the mere thought of his suffering.

So there was nothing I could do when he caught wind of a cat and turned wild with murder, trying to yank me after it, except to whisper vindictively: “You’ll never kill a cat, man. You’re just too beefy and slow now. Accept it. Besides, we’re tethered to each other.”

Soon I graduated, sold my book, and left Austin with my girlfriend and Pavlov for Manhattan, where she would work 20-hour days shooting her film, and where I would have an inexplicable meltdown. Inexplicable may be the wrong word. There are always explanations. Manic depression, for one. It’s just that explanations in these matters rarely feel complete. But surely the mental downfall had something to do with the void I’d dropped into upon finishing my novel, the end of grad school and that safe identity of “student” it had offered, the supremacy of New York City over my senses and bank account and of course, the strangers who have always lived inside me, humming threats of destruction, finally making good on their promise to bring the house down. Some combination of these wrapped me in fear, neediness, confusion and anger. It’s a marvel I wasn’t dumped.

Pavlov was with me, eating a discarded pizza crust, when I cracked up in the middle of Essex Street, unable to stand, sensory distortions clanging around my head. He was there when I barged into a behavioral health clinic in Chinatown and shrieked for immediate professional supervision, which later led to intensive therapy and medication. He was there, staring indifferently at me back in our apartment, when I spent the afternoon imploring my brain to switch itself off. Wanting badly to die but unable to kill myself. Feeling oddly convinced that I’d go through with it if only I were in those peaceful woods by Lady Bird Lake. He was there when my delusions made me see my loving partner as a merciless deceiver, all of her nurturing treated like a stack of vicious lies. And he was there, four months later, still yawning in my face, when I surfaced from whatever absurd agony I’d been drowning in. Finally able to sleep again. Finally able to trust again.

Seven months later, still terrified of relapse, I’ve learned to count on Pavlov for warning signs. I look at him first thing in the morning and, depending on how I feel about him, know what kind of head space I’ve woken up in. Since, in reality, he doesn’t change all that much, my wildly varying reactions are a perfect reflection of my state of mind. I might wake and see him as a hilarious miracle, or a vile enemy, or my harmless little farting companion, or a parasite, or an extension of the woman I’m in love with, or my son. I’ve had hateful thoughts about him that I would never admit to anyone. But I’ve also had thoughts of adoration.

I take one glance at him, and he warns me which version of myself I’ll be living with today. Beware: You detest me and yourself equally — avoid interactions. Beware: Your joy is manic and weird — do not send video texts no matter how funny you think they are. Beware: You’ve forgotten how to care — don’t judge yourself. Wait for it to pass.

I still can’t say I like him exactly. He has none of the traits I look for in a friend. He’s discourteous, greedy, demanding and he has no sense of humor. But I can say that I rely on him. That happened inexplicably — but certainly — over time.

I’m glad I never set him free in those woods. I’m glad I never broke my girlfriend’s heart.

This morning I looked at his massive face and put my head against his so that we were snout to snout. He doesn’t shy away from morning breath. I waited for him to tell me what the weather in my mind was like. He blinked and spoke only of himself — I smell like a wheat field. And he does. He smells nice today.

Karim Dimechkie is the author of the forthcoming novel “Lifted by the Great Nothing.”