Life the last week with Beau has been better than I could have expected. But while I'm waxing poetic while wearing rose colored glasses, I need to also be realistic.

From the moment he came home, it was clear that Beau has a big problem: Squirrels.

The first time he saw one those fat, fluffy-tailed bastards sitting on the fence, he froze and went into a trance. When the rodent twitched, Beau went after it, faster than a greyhound, freight train, and bat out of hell combined.

No amount of words, squeaky toys, or chicken and hot dogs could get his attention, and when the squirrel flew down the fence line and up the tree, if Beau could climb, he'd have been 30 feet above the world in the blink of an eye.

I'd already decided to take him out on a leash until he got used to the yard; that's going to need to continue for the foreseeable future.

Did I also mention he has the eyesight of a hawk? He can track a squirrel across the overhead critter tree highway from one yard to the next until it jumps down onto our fence, and then all bets are off.

Dammit.

My last dog, Bailey, had reactivity problems. After a few incidents that drew blood and led to stitches for a human who tried to break up a fight, the dogs ended up living in separate parts of the house, with Scout and Bandit gated on one side of the house and Bailey on the other, because it was too risky to leave them alone together.

For years.

Bailey was not a bad dog. She wasn’t even an aggressive dog. She was a lovely, sweet, poorly bred, discarded shelter puppy who grew up to be a dog with anxiety-induced impulse control problems.

If you've ever dealt with a reactive dog, then you know what I'm talking about.

If not...

In human terms, imagine being so overcome with anxiety that, in an instant, your brain goes into hyperdrive and all you can do is lash out at the first thing in your path. You don't want to hurt anyone; you just don't know what to do with all of these electrical impulses firing around in your head. In fact, you can't even think clearly enough to take a breath before reacting. Your response is swift and delivered without precision. If it’s in your path, it’s your target. It's a flash of a moment you never intended, but that flash is devastating. We've all been there, done that. Every one of us, at some time or another. But imagine that's your daily default. Now you can start to understand dog reactivity.

After years of training with experienced professionals that helped Bailey better control her reactions, helped Bandit shore up his already solid cues, and taught the humans how to avoid triggers when they could, things got…manageable, and better in the way a routine closely followed can be. For a while we were dealing with Bailey and also Scout’s terminal cancer. My sweet, sweet Scout eventually crossed the Rainbow Bridge, and over time, Bailey and Bandit started to settle. They even learned how to be in the same room, in a controlled setting, for a brief amount of time, for focused training, and with clear exit strategies. I counted that as a success.

On a daily basis? With a reactive dog you can find ways to navigate the situation, but because you can't control the world or triggers, you can't ever let your guard down. It’s not a situation for everyone, trust me. I can’t even begin to address the guilt I still feel about all of this. Bandit wasn’t a bad dog. He was a well-trained, wildly smart Border Collie who adored me and whom I adored. At least when Scout was alive, they had each other. Once Bandit was alone, he always got the short end of the stick because we had to manage the Bailey situation first.

We managed, we existed, but that’s not really living, is it?

Everyone was loved and well-cared for but day to day, no one got the attention they deserved because I was constantly trying to keep the whole thing from imploding.

The guilt still breaks me.

I talked about all of this last week with the adoption counselor at Lollpop, before I even met any dogs. I had two nonnegotiables: my next dog must be good with small children, and must be good with other dogs. I have a beloved tiny human in my life who loves dogs and I need to know he’ll be safe. I also need to be able to have someone dogsit, and I can't require that person to understand how to work with reactive dogs. I want the best of my dogs and none of the things that kept me rooted in place for so long.

You know, basically the moon on a silver platter. With a diamond tiara on top.

I had spotted Beau while he was walking outside with a volunteer, and immediately was drawn to him because his fluffy tail looked like Bandit. Given what I was looking for in a canine companion, Beau fit the bill. From what I understand, and this is just what I picked up in conversations, he’d been living with a family who had a housing situation, and they may have given him to someone else, and that person couldn’t keep him so they surrendered him. He was adopted and returned two weeks later by a couple who realized they may not have been on the same page about having a dog. All of the humans involved in that journey insisted that the dog was not at the shelter through any fault of his own.

The staff loved him.

He was spectacular in our meet and greet.

I kept wondering what was wrong with him.

The adoption counselor at Lollypop, who’s had her own experience with reactive dogs, understood my concerns, saying with such gentle kindness, “It's natural that right now you're asking 'What's wrong with this dog?' because it's hard to believe that there's nothing wrong. But sometimes a dog is just a dog.”

The trainer where we'll be taking classes starting next week also told me that, after dealing with difficult dogs of her own, she understood that finding a “typical” dog can be akin to finding a unicorn. When I shared my guilt and fears about Bandit and Bailey, she told me to go easy on myself and remember that when we process grief and loss sometimes emotions don't always reflect truth. “It's just so complicated,” she said.

Yes, that’s it. Complicated. And yet the squirrel situation has me wondering if I’m repeating history. What if Beau can’t control impulses over small critters? What if it transferes to tiny humans? What if he can’t be around other dogs? What if I’m doing this all wrong? What if…

And then I gave myself a talking to, because Beau is not Bailey or Bandit (or Scout for that matter), and I’m not who I was even six months or a year ago (or even yesterday), and life isn’t the same as it was two or five (or ten) years ago. Why am I allowing myself to be overwhelmed with anxiety about a reality that doesn’t exist any more?

So here are some current truths to help keep me future-focused (and hopefully leave my anxiety at the curb):

While out for a walk, the mailman asked if he could pet my new dog. I told him I had no idea how Beau would react but if he felt like trying… Then I went into immediate preparation for disaster. Do we have an out? Do I have a good hold on the leash? Am I watching closely enough for the tipping point when sweet excitement turns into reactive barking/snarling and can I disengage while it's a good encounter? Guess what? Beau was perfect. He sniffed the mailman while we talked, was curious about the mailbag, wagged his tail for a pet, and when he'd had enough he just walked away.

Yesterday we took an impromptu walk with a neighbor and her 9-year-old son, and Beau trotted along like it's something we do every day. Then later Beau met my tiny human for a quick greeting, and all went very, very well.

Beau was initially just as laser-focused on birds as he is on squirrels; the finches on my window feeder were driving him nuts and he barked every time one fluttered a wing. But he's already figured out they're nothing but things that flit by and go away, and now they’re noted and dismissed.

He's walking loosely on the leash, and even if we do see squirrels on a walk, he's not chasing them. Stopping and freezing to stare? Yes. But when the squirrel has moved on, or I stand in from of him to break the gaze, he comes back to me and we move on. I’m hoping this is a good indication we can find a way to manage the situation in our yard.

I'm looking forward to starting training next week.

Beau is a good dog who snuggles with me, and sleeps at my feet while I work, and wants me to pet his belly, and comes when I call him, and brings me his favorite squeaky to throw. But he also isn’t stuck to me like glue. He’s found his own places to hang out in the house and manages just fine if I’m out of sight in another room. He’s his own dog, and he’s getting comfy here, and we’re already learning how to communicate with each other, even if we haven’t quite figured out the potty situation (but we will).

These are truths.

Really, what this all comes down to today is that I need to be better at not panicking about the past so much that it taints the present. Admittedly, this is something I've been working on in my own life for years. Maybe Beau is here to help me keep making progress while he rids the village of squirrels.

Share

Don’t forget to visit my website for info on classes for humans and other random stuff, and follow me on Facebook

.