being the alpha dog

control and love are not the same thing, but we'd often like it to be

The summer we move to Charleston, my then-now-ex-fiancé and I had talked about adopting a dog. I was never able to have a dog growing up due to my sisters asthma; and there’s really nothing more in the world I could want as a young adult. After getting settled in our new home for a few months, my fiancé had gone out grocery shopping on a weekday and asked me to come downstairs to help carry the bags to our third floor apartment. When I got to the parking lot, I realized he was cradling something tiny in his arms. That was the first time I met my Luna girl. 

Just six weeks old, she had the cutest little smushed face, painted with an all-black muzzle and black streak down her little tail. Her puppy belly was big and round, and she waddled like a baby duck when she walked. Her little legs were so short, that for the first few weeks, she wasn’t even big enough to get up the stairs. But even with how heartbreakingly adorable she was, the first thing I noticed about luna was how terrified she was. Her entire little body was shaking as he transferred her to my arms. She let out a few puppy whines, looking for any sort of edge to tell her she was safe.

I cradled her there in the parking lot, tears flowing, and kissed her head. “Hi, I’m you’re mama.”, I whispered. Her little body shook as she lifted her head to mine, and licked away one of my fallen tears. 

The next few weeks with Luna were the best weeks of my life. I came alive again. We were working on potty training, leash training, behavior training, and she was thriving. We did everything together. She was showing more and more confidence and was able to tackle more overwhelming environments, even the ocean waves. She was a happy, sweet girl, loving every minute of her new home. Every once in a while, she would get overwhelmed by a loud noise or a bike and would run back to my feet, yelping to be picked up.

“Don't coddle her!” my partner would say. “You’re going to make it worse!”

“But look at her.” I would plea, her little body shaking. It felt so unnatural to me to witness such a small, tender thing in total distress and scold her. I couldn’t do it, so it became his job to do so. It felt extremely unnatural to not provide comfort in that moment, like it went against every instinct my body had.

baby lunie:

Nearly everyone I encountered had a similar reaction. The trainer we hired told me it was best to scare her out of her fears. She would throw water balloons at random in her path while she was walking. I was almost certain my dog now believed giant bags of water could be cast from the sky at any minute, squashing her. She began to look up over her shoulder as she walked, panicking, waiting for the next to drop. My heart broke, but I continued with training, because I wanted to do the right thing. I wanted her to have a good life, and not be terrified of the world. I saw so much of myself in her. 

As she regressed through the training, we decided to pull her. Her fear grew bigger, and she stopped being able to go on walks or enjoy the park. It took weeks to get her back to her normal. Luna is incredibly smart and insanely observant. Too observant, even. If there was a new garbage can or flower pot, or car parked differently on her walks, she would notice. She was always scanning, always on the lookout for change, for threats. I empathized with her the moment I met her, because I knew firsthand how exhausting of an existence that was. I didn’t want my pup to be looking out for the both of us, nor did I want her to be shocked through her fears and anxieties. 

Even now, as a seven year old girl, she still is more fearful than most. As a 65-pound dog, she’s incredibly strong and able to take down most anything if she wanted to. But my girl runs from bikes, she hates garbage trucks, panics at the sound of a skateboard, and will full on break off her leash during a peaceful beach walk to avoid someone holding a surf board. When a new object enters an environment, she has to slowly approach and sniff it out until she gives the ok. If something triggers her on a walk, she will sit down in the middle of the street and refuse to go further. “Mom! It’s not safe! Please!” is all I picture her saying. and because she’s now stronger than me, we have to turn around. In these moments, I feel I’ve let her down.

I listen to friends and parents and strangers as they give me advice. “You have to force her to do it.” “She’s not in control here.” “Scare her out of it”

I smile and nod and sit and think about how the world does this to so many of us. Why is it normalized to continue the cycles with our animals? The only childhood memories I have are the ones where I am being shamed through moments of fear. Standing on the edge of the pool, my toes curling over the edge of the board, my arms over my head in the perfect V, shaking uncontrollably.

I wonder why the initial reaction of the world is to shame the people who are paying attention and asking, “is this safe, because it doesn't really feel like it?” I can’t help but wonder if my anxiety born out of being pushed to perform when I was not sure.. when I was just not quite ready? I wondered what my own personal water-balloon training was as a kid. 

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