Rescue Me

My best friend has been by my side--or, at least, at my feet--for just a little less than a decade. Shannon, a beautiful Black Labrador-mix, adopted me in the summer of 2006 at a dog rescue where I volunteered. Terrified of literally everything new she encountered, Shannon had what is known as fear aggression. After virtually no human interaction for the first 18 months of her life, tied up in some Ozark backyard, she was almost wild. She bit the dog trainer. She bit me. No trust; no sense of relationship bond between dog and human; no faith in love, certainly, nor even in compassion or pity.

We were a perfect match because I suffer from the human form of fear

Shannon, Whitefish Bay, WI,
September 2014

aggression. Shannon's deep-chested bark, snarling and snapping snout, and deadly-silent run at a daily world of terrifying monsters (e.g., a scrawny, gentle granny-cat) were echoed in my defensive snap, scowling brow, and quietly narrowed eyes whenever I felt in danger from a world that still, too often, seems full of the monsters of my childhood.

The modern objects of our respective fears carry no real threat, 90% of the time, but that didn't stop either of us from the very real emotion of terror...or the swift reflex of defensive aggression. As I have worked to continue mining, refining, and polishing my Childhood Treasures of Trust, Independence, and Faith, Shannon has worked right along with me. Each of us has benefited from the growth and progress of her best friend. Each of us has been the other's teacher.

From a near-wild dog who could not be touched, she became a dog who loved to be stroked and could, with enough patience in the human hand, relax with her belly open to the sky. From being terrorized by my tired, 19-year-old cat, and by the swoosh of a propane ring's lighting, she became a dog who could walk down city streets on a leash, past bikers and skaters and joggers, sprinklers wacka-wack-ing, and children squealing. We traveled together; she walked in the Smoky Mountains and on the beaches of Door County. Sometimes she stayed home when I traveled, and learned to trust pet-sitters. She bit no one else ever again.

But all these nine years, Shannon has never stopped being afraid, I'm sad to say. She has never stopped reacting with fear and aggression to--oh!--so many things:  fireworks, dirt bikes, footsteps on the front porch, people in costumes, a raccoon on the deck, a sharply-sounding doorknocker on TV....

Some early wounds simply last a lifetime. But Shannon showed me that a lot of grace comes from coping, from doing one's best to live as well and fully as possible, despite one's history. Through the fear, through the pain, we just kept living and enjoying the riches of these short lives. Yes, sometimes she--and I--have been temporarily challenged beyond our respective coping capacities. After the meltdown, we just took another breath and went on coping again.

For these nine years, Shannon has modeled for me a better, kinder, more-unconditional love for others. I have modeled for her a calmer, less-reactive way to live in this world of surprises, which turn out to be mostly benign upon closer examination. She has elevated my compassion and acceptance for others' foibles...and my own. I have elevated her sense of security and showed her

Shannon (AKA Smiley),
on the back deck, Summer 2012

what patience and relaxation look like. She has protected me fiercely. I have fiercely cared for her wounded body and spirit; have fiercely defended her right to a life as normal as she could achieve after her traumatic early experiences.

Together, Shannon and I have learned to Trust that others can meet our needs, we have developed the boundaries of Independence that enable a relationship based on the mutuality of honest exchange. We have both, I think, learned to have Faith in something larger than ourselves, even if that Faith is only in the possibility of change and growth. For almost a decade, Shannon has helped me be a better person, a better woman. I think I have helped her be a better dog.

I hope so. This week, I had to make the decision to let Shannon go. It was one of my most painful letting-go experiences, in decades of letting go of companion animals in my life.

I rescued Shannon and she rescued me right back. I am grateful, forever, for her love and gentle teaching. Thank you, canine BFF, for a wonderful near-decade of mutual growth. Rest in peace. No more fear, my dear, no more fear.