My Dark Dog Past (Patreon)

Today, it has been a year since I adopted Scraps. It has been a really difficult year, for obvious reasons. But also for some less obvious ones. 

WARNING: long, occasionally sad post.

As you might know, I am a huge dogsplainer. I will happily give anyone unsolicited dog training advice, or rant about different breeds and their specific health problems. And as much as I want to think that I was brought to this earth to tell you that your dog needs to go on a diet, I know that deep down, it’s a case of insecurity masquerading as confidence. And trying to make up for mistakes that I cannot make up for.

Let’s go back to 2011. I was 21 and in an objectively terrible relationship, but too young to know it. So we got a puppy. An American Staffordshire Terrier (AKA a fancy pitbull) from one of the top breeders in all of Sweden, with a long lineage of healthy dogs. I named him Boltzmann, after an Austrian physicist, which quickly devolved to Bobo.

Bobo and I on our first day together

We were young, but we were good dog parents. We went to every puppy class, were out hours on end in the forest and had an entire freezer filled with every gross piece of meat you could imagine. Bobo learned everything from playing dead to howling on command (!) and I tied ropes around chunks of meat and dragged them through the forest to work on his search skills. 

Bobo was smart, funny, and annoying as hell, as any high-energy breed puppy. And when he was 7 months, he wouldn’t stop barking at my friend. This is normal puppy behavior. Dogs go through fear periods during different stages of their development and will suddenly get scared of everything from plastic bags to bicycles.

The thing that wasn’t normal, was that Bobo didn’t get better. He just got worse. Barking at my friend slowly turned into barking at every person who came over to our apartment. And that turned into barking at people outside. We asked the breeder for advice, but she just shrugged. We went to a dog trainer and started a regimented training program. It didn’t get better. So we tried another trainer. Then another one. We went to vets and dog psychologist. He had some minor issues with one of his elbows. Maybe he was in pain and maybe that exasperated his fear of strangers? I spent 2 hours in public transport several days a week for 15 minutes of water treadmill rehab. It didn’t help.

Months went by, and things slowly got worse. Hope morphed into despair. I started planning my life around his behaviors. The thought of someone coming over was enough to make my stomach turn. I started sweating when we were out in public together, tracking his every move. We were riding the subway when he jumped up and barked at a stranger, unprovoked. I remember running off the train and bursting out in tears as a man yelled after me that I should euthanize my dog.

Looking back, I’m not sure what I would have done differently. It has been almost 10 years, but no matter how I twist and turn everything that happened, our sad ending seems inevitable. We considered rehoming him, but none of our trainers recommended it. A change of environment would probably only make things worse for him, and finding a home where he would never have to meet any strangers seemed like an impossible task.

One day, Bobo was with my ex and he jumped up on a man and grabbed on to the fabric of his sleeve. Up until then, he had never used his mouth or made an attempt to bite anyone. An invisible line had been crossed, and there was no turning back. I talked to our head trainer who had been with us since our first puppy class, and all I remember was that she said it’s time for him to move on to the paw fields.

He was 2.5 years old wen we made the decision. My brilliant, beautiful Bobo. For his last day, we went to the beach. The few people that he loved were all there. And then we took him to the vet. He was nervous. I told him that it was going to be ok. It’s a lie that still hurts.

Having to decide to euthanize a being that you love and care for so deeply is something I wouldn’t wish upon anyone. It is one of the most painful decisions I’ve ever had to make. But he was dangerous, and we couldn’t guarantee the safety of our surroundings. Sooner or later he would hurt somebody, and even though every part of me screamed no, I couldn’t let that happen.

I tried my fucking best, and I failed. I wasn’t able to help him through his fear of strangers no matter how I tried, and that feeling of shame and powerlessness has followed me ever since. Overnight, I turned from a dedicated dog nerd, to someone who was nervous of passing dogs on the street. Years went by. I desperately missed having a dog in my life, but I didn’t trust myself to take care of one. What if the same thing would happen again?

More years passed. I got older. I built a toothbrush helmet and all kinds of weird and magical things happened. Slowly, I regained confidence in my dog skills. I started doing research about dog training again, and got stuck reading entire wikipedia pages about random breeds. Maybe I could provide a good home for a dog, after all? Maybe I could be the competent dog trainer that I wanted to be? I started scrolling through PetFinder. I went to meet countless dogs at the shelter. My only dealbreaker was that it had to be a dog that was confident around humans, since I worried that my old anxieties would make me a bad fit for a nervous dog.

April 18, 2020, I got a call from the SPCA in San Francisco. They had a four month old puppy with three legs, and the woman who was supposed to adopt her pulled out last minute. Could I be there in 45?

I hopped in Truckla. They led me into a quarantine-proof playpen where I got to meet the puppy. She’s tiny. Her white fur sticks out in every direction like a welding spark. Her butt is still shaved from her amputation, but she hops around and plays anyway. I ask the shelter staff how she is around people, and they say she’s an absolute sweetheart. The lady asks “there’s no way you’re going to leave without her, is there?”

Of course I wasn’t. This puppy was magnificent, and all I wanted was to give her as good of a life as I possibly could.

So I bring her home. I name her Scraps, and we spend the first couple of days in teething, housebreaking holy-fuck-I’d-forgotten-how-much-work-it-is-to-raise-a-puppy bliss. Until our neighbor comes by to say hi, and Scraps won’t stop barking at her. Ok, that’s normal. She’s in a new environment, and she’s four months which is a common fear period.

Except it doesn’t get better as she gets older. Scraps barks at every person we pass by. People who step out of doors, people who sit down, people who look at her the wrong way, people who tell her that she’s cute, people who give her treats, kids playing, she barks at them all and will not stop.

I start taking private training sessions with the head behavioralist at the SPCA. I watch every YouTube video on the matter. I polish my timing, my rewards, my redirection. We have good weeks, followed by bad weeks, followed by even better weeks, followed by even worse weeks. I cry. A lot. This was exactly what I didn’t want to happen. How did I end up here again? Is there something about me that just makes dogs insecure? Do I have bad dog juju? One time could be bad luck, but what are the odds that I get two exceptionally suspicious and fearful dogs in a row?

I spend so much time worrying about how Scraps is going to behave in different situations. And then as much time trying to make sure that she doesn’t notice that I’m worried. I try to stay optimistic, and keep reminding myself that Scraps is not Bobo. No matter how bad things will get, I will never have to euthanize her, because she’s not big enough to be a serious danger to my environment.

So it’s been a tough year. Raising a puppy is hard. Raising a puppy that has had a rough start in life is even harder. And raising a puppy that reminds you of how you failed someone you loved even though you tried your absolute best is grueling.

With that said, we are making progress. Slow progress, but the training is paying off. Scraps will still bark at people, but she gets over it faster, and I’m able to redirect her more and more often. I never leave the house without an arsenal of dog treats. I’ve learned her cues, and try to stay a step ahead of her. Yesterday we spent time in a park with a group of people she didn’t know, and she was comfortable enough to lay down and dose off for a while. Having people over at the house is still a struggle, but if we meet them a block away and go for a walk first it usually goes well.

Scraps and I at agility class

Will she ever be a dog that wags her tail at every stranger? Most likely not. But will it get to a point where I don’t have to constantly worry about how she’s going to react to different people? Hopefully. We’re working on it. Relentlessly. I hope to one day bring her traveling with me. It feels far away at this point, but maybe one day.

I wish things were a bit easier. I really do. But it doesn’t mean that it’s all bad. Maybe this is a very painstaking way for me to heal. A baby step redemption. No matter what, I love Scraps. So much. And as much as I can be frustrated with her, I’m also so impressed with her. She’s a smart cookie. She loves working for treats. She gets so excited when we learn new tricks that she runs laps around me.

Maybe one day we will actually run into the person who broke her leg. And then I’ll let her bark as much as she wants. I’ll even allow her to bite their ankle. But until then, I’ll keep on showering her with treats and play for choosing anything other than telling people to fuck off.

So happy adoption anniversary, my feisty 13 pounds of vengeance. Love you so much.

XOXO

Simone