Will my dog and I ever be "cured" of our reactivity?

All these years of progress later, sometimes I still grieve the things that aren't easy with such a sensitive creature.

The cutest sleepy Scout Finch, greeting me for affection after a nap.

This morning we had to pass a dog on a narrow boardwalk, maybe three feet wide. The other handler stopped to let us go by, which I found thoughtful (I appreciate any recognition, ever, that not all dogs just want to rush into on-leash greetings! This man was extremely kind) but also more difficult (his dog stared pretty hard at Scout while we walked by, and it would have been easier on our nervous gal if everyone kept moving to make the whole interaction shorter).

Anyway, it was really no big deal, except that at the very last second Scout growl-barked. A small reaction. A reaction she shook off in seconds. A reaction I understood given the specific situation on its own and even more so with the surrounding context: We’ve been in the midwest for Sean’s work and now family visits (both celebratory and chaotic), dealing again with colder temperatures, changing up our usual routines, asking her to tolerate more both physically and mentally.

But even with all that great logic—hard-won logic, honestly, thought processes I’ve spent ages building and practicing since our early days—I still felt the old emotions rise in my stomach. Settle back in the spot they used to live full time when my dog’s reactivity was the single greatest stressor in my life. Refuse to budge for a few gray hours.

Today Scout’s behavioral problems are nowhere close to that all-consuming calamity. But we never fully “cured” them, either. Is there more we could have done? (Could still do?) Undoubtedly—I am not the tiniest bit ashamed to admit that. I think we need to talk about marginal returns and individual situations and the deeply personal decision of what “finished” looks like for us, as individuals, a lot more.

But once in a while, on a narrow boardwalk at sunrise through tall grasses full of cardinals, I run into a bit of residual grief. Small but stubborn. The kind of jagged emotion that forces my palm open to hold it even when I really, really don’t want to.

I am so proud to know this dog better, and to love her so deeply, and to—most importantly—no longer beg her to be different in order to deserve that love. The last years have held all these highs scattered across the country and continent living in a converted van: chasing sunrises and laughing on beaches and thinking my morning coffee view looks like something out of a movie montage made even better by Scout’s speckled fur at my feet. By her eyes, the second I turn to look into them, having always already found my own.

Life together is so damn great. It’s just still not always easy.

And I suppose I’m still learning that it was never supposed to be.

Related reading

Welcome to a very long “related reading” section! 😉 Because the vast majority of what I’ve written about on this blog over the years has touched on 1) Scout’s reactivity, 2) my emotions about said reactivity, and 3) finding joy and connection regardless.

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

Living with a shy dog has made me less social

Dogs need more than love

Am I finally past my emotional (over)reaction to my dog growling?

Validation I needed earlier in my journey with my dog

My dog does not have dog friends

Update: What our dog reactivity training looks like today

As always you can find the whole Paws and Reflect archive at pawsandreflect.blog, and you can sort posts by tags if you’re looking for something specific!