It’s (still) isolating to love a sensitive dog

But I am capable of crossing any imaginary line my least-productive thought spirals draw.

Scout has reacted more in the last couple weeks than the last several months combined. In large part we’ve gotten unlucky (and, admittedly, a little complacent) with blind-corner surprises and exuberant off-leash dogs and sneaky roaming cats. (So. Many. Cats. I love nothing more than offering my friendship to the cagey creatures; Scout can’t decide if they’re terrifying or tempting.)

The less I scroll my dog-centric corner of social media and the more I engage with our everyday world, the greater my sense of loneliness. When I open Instagram, I am surrounded by advertisements and controversy and the comparison game, yes—but I am also in the thick of a community with experiences similar to our own (or at least enough exposure to be able to “get it” when someone else shares). When I step out our apartment door, in contrast, I am surrounded by well-meaning neighbors who use the local park as a de facto off-leash area and don’t expect voice control. It seems they’ve never worried about their dog being scared or hurt or embarrassing. (That’s how they act, anyway—that’s what the prickly-injured voice in my head tells me.)

“It’s like no street is safe,” I recently whispered to Sean after a particularly challenging lunchtime walk. It was equal parts strange and devastating to find myself back in that mental place. I know it well—despair, insecurity, wishing my dog was just more “normal”—but for years I’ve remembered the feelings from afar, as old friends. Not these intense right-now companions.

One of our favorite streets, even if the blind corner brings occasional chaos.

Of course, many important things are different from the thick of Scout’s fear reactivity. All three of us recover quickly. A startling moment on a present-day outing does not hang over our heads for days or even hours. (Scout will probably ask to play tug again within minutes.) I’m no longer concerned that occasional barking-growling episodes indicate training regression, at least when I’m thinking clearly. (Scout’s confidence and comfort have been stable for a long time.) I trust my dog. I trust myself. I am increasingly able to evaluate a situation, admit we couldn’t have done much better, and move the hell on.

But still: It can feel so lonely.

I go out of my way to wave, enthusiastically, at our next-door neighbor when we pass him and his outgoing dog on the other side of the street. I don’t want them thinking we’re avoidant or antisocial or rude—but Scout does not want to say hi. Despite addressing a heated off-leash dog encounter in a way I’m proud of, my heart still insists on speeding when we spot the same man with his companion. (We cross paths most days.) I try to surreptitiously position myself with full lines of sight when we relax—ha, “relax”—at the park so I’m ready to have Scout’s back. (I end up intercepting at least one dog more often than not.)

On the worst days I feel like we live in dog ownership’s dark underbelly, peering at our blessed-not-stressed counterparts—so unbothered, so light—like nosy retirees through closed blinds.

Until I remind myself we, too, can be that light.

It’s easy to list the worst moments of our return to apartment life. I can dwell on Scout’s increased reactions, fixate on the times I let her down, repeat ad nauseum that if she fully trusted me (and I was actually reliable) she would never feel the need to put on any sort of defensive display.

But I am also capable of crossing any imaginary line my least-productive thought spirals draw.

I can put Scout in a down stay and go talk—like a prosocial human being!—to the owner of an off-leash German shepherd who keeps throwing the ball in our direction. “Okay, I am obsessed with your baby’s hat,” I can squeal (and truly mean) when I see the newborn in the stroller. “And your dog is beautiful. Mine’s been attacked before, though, and we get nervous when other dogs run right toward us. Any chance you could play fetch in the other direction?”

And the new mother—who would have been so easy to brand as disrespectful (“I mean honestly, this is a leash-required park, why would she let her dog get so close when we’re just trying to read?!”)—can show me how kind she is. “Of course, I’m so sorry!” she can say (and truly mean) right back. “I didn’t realize.”

The next time we see her and her partner and their child, we can all wave across the green space and enjoy our respective family time, her with slightly more awareness and me with slightly more peace.

And both of us, I hope, with at least a small sense of connection.

Sweet sweet Scout: open, soft, and comfortable.

A couple weeks ago I shared an essay called “the first time” with an in-person writing group. The piece tells my story with Scout through significant “firsts”: hard ones like the first time she reacted to another dog and I lost my own temper alongside lovely ones like the first time she was brave enough to initiate play.

“Your voice gets less defensive as the piece goes on,” one of my peers told me. “You’re softer at the end. More open.”

Openness, I wrote in today’s morning journal. Things to strive for: openness.

Last week, on my 28th birthday, I reorganized Paws and Reflect with a few changes that make me (and hopefully you!) more excited about being in this space.

Welcome to Paws and Reflect!