Two and half years ago, we adopted Hawkeye, a rescue dog from Alabama. He was somewhere shy of six months old. He and his dog parents and his two dog siblings were, by report, caught in a housefire. The dog dad and the dog siblings escaped, but Hawkeye and his dog mom were trapped inside the house. The dog mom perished but Hawkeye was rescued. On a beautiful summer afternoon, we met Hawkeye, his siblings, and his dad. The three were affable, not the least bit afraid of humans or of other dogs, but Hawkeye was shrunken and trembling in the corner, paralyzed with fear. At home, he hid behind a mattress that had been propped up against a wall while a bed was relocated for unrelated reasons.
I was learning about human trauma at that time, specifically my own brain’s responses to traumatic experiences, both past and present. I thought I understood everything I needed to know about our brain’s safety mechanisms, its hardwired responses after a traumatic event and a subsequent trigger. My assumed knowledge was incorrect and even more incomplete. Everything I was reading, listening to, absorbing, was a forensic study into my own brain. Every single author and podcaster seemed to be speaking directly to me.
But watching Hawkeye looking so unmoored, so full of abject terror with any action, even eating, was watching an acute trauma response unfold in real time. His body was manifesting what my brain had for years. Getting to know him meant recognizing that his triggers were everywhere. A business’s “OPEN” flag flapping in the sea breeze was terrifying. A garden sculpture of a duck caused him to retreat between my legs. The clang of a metal dog bowl on the tiled kitchen floor put him into a cowered position in the corner. Any encounter with a human caused to him to back up as far as the length of the leash would allow, barking all the while.
Insights into how my brain works was valuable in understanding Hawkeye’s. Like me, his brain’s primary function is to keep him safe. Being in the spectacularly unsafe situation of a housefire at such a young age had him extrapolate that threat to encompass everything in his environment. His defensive armor was thick and required patience to break through. And I had to get over myself long enough to realize that I needed to allow him to determine the pace of this journey. His recovery could not be accomplished on my timeline.
Delving deeper into our own psyches is a hero’s journey and it is a trek that does not go from Point A to Point Z overnight. The road is not straight and narrow. I struggled to have patience with my own brain when it was so easy for me to revert to my own primal, reactionary behaviors and thoughts. Like Hawkeye, my armor was thick and carefully sculpted. Years of patterned responses needed to be redirected and, like any new activity, learning new ways of thinking and responding feels awkward and unfamiliar in the beginning. As a lifelong impatient perfectionist, I want to do it correctly and excel with the first attempt and when I don’t, the Self Judgment kicks in, the learning stops. Together, he and I have made steps forward. Mine have happened arguably quicker than his, but we’re getting each to our own sense of ease, of safety, of response rather than reaction.
Recently, Hawkeye had a large setback, due to a traumatic veterinarian visit, and he was behaving as if it was our first week together. I have learned that help helps, so we’ve been working with a professional dog trainer to help him overcome all of the same fears, only this time even more dramatic, in a more secure, less haphazard way. We walk downtown and go under flags flapping in the breeze. When he reacts in fear and trembles and cowers, we stand under the flag until he can find some ease, be it in a “sit” pose or even just in a deep breath, then we move forward.
We are building back his confidence in his own overall safety in the world around him. While the setback was heartbreaking and no joke, his return has been much faster and his sense of security with me might even be stronger.
Proof, once again, that The Only Way Out is Through.
Jenie
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