Something shifts inside of us on the journey with our dogs.

Most people who are cursed with a challenging dog follow a similar path. I say cursed on purpose, so bear with me. It’s because when we set off on our journey it often feels like we’ve been cursed.

The blessing, as often, is in disguise, which is why we don’t see it until later.

Initially we put up a facade.

We hesitate to admit to others, and if we’re honest, to ourselves as well, what we’re really thinking, for fear of how we’ll be perceived. For fear of what our thinking says about us. 

We don’t let people know how this dog was nothing like we expected.

We don’t talk about how we feel like the walls of our home are closing in on us, because where can we go?

We bury the hurt we experience every time we see two dogs frolic about, their humans not having a care in the world. That was our dream after all and it appears to be out of reach.

We don’t voice how it makes us doubt ourselves and our skills when people say it’s the owner, not the dog.

We don’t let on that we sometimes wish we had never gotten this dog.

Or how it weighs on us that we were the one who insisted this dog was a good idea.

How we’re resentful, because we give so much and what exactly is it that we get in return?

How we’re physically and mentally drained because we have jobs and families too and it seems like everything and everyone is suffering because of this dog.

How we had wanted to punch “It’s okay he’s friendly” in the face for ruining the little progress we had made, but we didn’t. We didn’t even say anything and now we’re beating ourselves up for not having the guts to at least speak up.

But silence doesn’t break curses, it intensifies them. The more we keep things bottled up inside, the more we avoid dealing with our emotions, the worse off we are.

Other people tell us the problem is that we care too much. We should let go. Take a step back. It’s just a dog.

As we try to research and train our way out of dejection, we find sprinkles of information here and there. We stumble upon other people experiencing similar things, and a similar pain.

We realize we are not alone.

We learn there is a name for what’s happening to our dog. It’s fear-based reactivity, it’s epilepsy, it’s separation anxiety, it’s trauma from birth, or lack of socialization.

Slowly, we start to realize that the issue is that it’s not just a dog. 

The socialization around what a dog is supposed to be, about what a dog is in the eyes of many, is part and parcel of the problem. 

It’s that same socialization that stopped us from voicing our innermost thoughts about our dog. After all there’s socialization around what a human is supposed to be as well. What we’re allowed to feel good and bad about. What we get to regret and not regret. What is acceptable to complain about. The hardships of caring for a challenging dog certainly don’t make the list.

We wanted the dog. We made our bed, and now we must lie in it. 

We’re not allowed to feel the way we do.

Even though the thing is that we do feel that way.

Slowly we realize that in order to help our dogs and ourselves we have to change more than just our perception of what a dog is. 

We have to rethink our stance on how we want to live with them. Do we want to be the authoritarian leader and for the dog to do as we say under all circumstances? Or do we shift to team member and open up a conversation with our dogs?

To which extent do we listen to them and expect them to listen to us? To which extent do we cater to their wishes and expect them to cater to ours?

Our dilemma becomes an ethical one.

We have to acknowledge that we are part of the system that is the problem. That we too once saw the dog as the answer to our needs without considering theirs. What does that say about us?

Once it truly hits us how complex the inner lives of our dogs are and how much of their freedom we control, we start to wonder if our dog’s love isn’t actually the result of trauma bonding.

Do our dogs have Stockholm syndrome?

And so a new rabbit hole opens up.

We start perceiving ourselves differently. We see our actions in a different light.

With that comes guilt and doubt. Guilt for how we’ve treated our dog before we knew better. Guilt when we choose to prioritize ourselves over our dogs.

We doubt ourselves, because socialization keeps tugging at our sleeves, telling us we’re the odd ones out for seeing our dogs as more than just a dog, even though our hearts tell us we’re right.

Can we have a dog and love a dog? Are the two at odds with each other?

In an attempt to alleviate some of that guilt we start holding ourselves to even higher standards than before, putting even more pressure on ourselves to do right by our dogs and our loved ones. Either that or we numb ourselves out of existence to get away from the existential crisis our dog brought upon us. That we brought upon ourselves really.

We wonder where else we have not been seeing other beings for who they truly are, where else we have been part of a system of oppression, either actively or passively. 

We want to fix it, all of it, and we can’t. Not by ourselves. Not without burning ourselves out in the process, although some of us tried that first.

It’s when we learn to let go of the illusion that perfection is attainable. It’s where we begin to understand that there will never be a perfect dog, a perfect version of us or a perfect world.

We realize we will have to find a way to live with both the relief and the sadness that that awareness brings. That we can find confidence by leaning into fear. That we can find our place in society by deviating from it. We recognize that we can find love for our dog and ourselves in accepting that we have a hard time accepting all of them and all of us. 

We learn that it is not only okay to speak up about how we feel, but that it is imperative that we do, because when we do, we’re now providing the sprinkles of information that will allow the next person to set off on the windy path of self-discovery and self-acceptance. 

We shift from fighting to embracing the duality of life, wherein something can feel like a curse and be a blessing at the same time, and where something can feel like a blessing and be a curse at the same time.

This is what our dog taught us. This is the blessing when we see through the disguise.