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By Cindy Stone
It was a crisis of fear. I was
trapped between my newly adopted dog and his food. He did not
look amused. He curled his lips into a wolfish grin to reveal
stunningly white, sharp teeth and emitted a low growl that rose
in pitch and fervor as he viciously lunged at me. I reached out
to grab his collar and his teeth sank deep into the inside of my
arm. With all the strength I could summon, I rushed him through
to the back door, fumbled with the latch, then put him outside.
He looked as stunned as I felt. He sat down on the deck with his
topaz eyes staring uncomprehendingly at me with large, wet
snowflakes swirling down around him. The moment was eerily
quiet.
What was it that had caused my “Disney-looking” dog with the too
large ears, the scruffy coat and beard like an Asian sage to
savagely bite me? I had showered him with love and affection. I
had saved him from the local humane society. I had given him
food and bones and treats and long walks. I had dreamed of the
bond that we would have. But none of it was turning out as I had
hoped. I certainly hadn’t expected to get bitten by my own dog,
or any other dog for that matter.
Adopting the no-named, scraggly-haired street mutt I eventually
called Harry was my plan to allow love back into my life after
my long-term marriage had ended the year before. I felt ready
and I wanted to love again. I had always loved animals and I had
always wanted a dog. Everything was great, except that my
adopted street-mutt wasn’t cooperating with the plan. He didn’t
know how to walk on a leash—I was getting a dislocated shoulder.
He didn’t trust people in general, and me in particular—he would
growl and attack if anyone walked into the same room with him
and food. He wouldn’t drink water from a bowl—It had to be from
a dirty puddle or the lake. He was definitely “his own
dog”—stubbornly refusing to respond to any command as if it were
beneath him to do so.
As it happens so often in life, things don’t turn out the way
you expect them to or necessarily want them to. The I Ching
says, “It is not so much the importance of the event, but how
you respond to the event that matters most.” I was at a
crossroads. I could “put him down”, a socially acceptable thing
to do to a dog that bit a human, or I could look at the deeper
significance of what might be happening in our relationship.
It is said that when the student is ready, the teacher finds the
student. I was a psychotherapist and executive coach and I was
supposed to be an expert in relationships. Surely I could solve
this relationship. But I had no words, no basis for
communication. I was at a loss and I was facing a Zen master in
the visceral way that he delivered his lessons. Everything was
reduced to non-verbal communication with Harry and for all the
years of offering therapy and experiencing therapy myself, I
discovered I had used words to obscure the holes in my being. I
would have to be all of what I had pretended to be and act with
intention or Harry would strike out in his own inimitable way.
I began with little steps to rebuild our relationship. I let go
of the fantasy that I was going to have an incredible bond with
a great dog in 30 days or less. I had to deal with my little
problem of fear for I knew all too well what Harry was capable
of -I had the scars to prove it. He was a big dog and I had no
idea how to handle him. I had to accept my fear, because trying
to hide it made Harry anxious, yet I still had to move through
the fear to create a different relationship.
With advice from a canine aggression expert, Adam Stone, I
taught Harry how to leave my territory (whatever room I was in)
and go to his territory (whatever room I wasn’t currently in). I
kept his leash on even while he was inside for several months
until he began to respond to my voice. I gave him a bottomless
bucket of food so that he let go of his fear of starving. And
while on walks, I took him to places where he wasn’t distracted
by a lot of other dogs so that he could become more connected to
me. I was getting over my fear and our trust was building. A
by-product of our work was the establishment of mutual respect.
I realized that initially Harry had been setting the rules for
our life together. For example, I wasn’t to go near him when he
had food or a ball and I wasn’t to walk him on a leash or he
would rebel until I released him. I was not setting any rules
for Harry, but he was setting all kinds of rules for me. It was
kind of like my marriage and my friendships! I seemed to have no
requirements of others but others had requirements of me. An old
saying goes like this, “You teach others how you want to be
treated.” Every wise therapist and counselor says it, but I
hadn’t noticed that I wasn’t living it. I began writing and the
lessons took on a shape that I had not anticipated. The Four
Elements of healing, courage, trust, respect and love
crystallized and became the foundation for what I was learning
and would later teach to others in their human relationships.
Relationships are what life is all about. I had led with love in
all of my previous relationships as if love would pave the way
to happiness. I naively believed that if you loved, love would
be returned in kind. But Harry had his own ideas about
relationships. He wanted to know first what I was about before
he decided whether I was worth his investment of love. Harry
wanted to know what I was made of; whether I was trustworthy,
how I would react, how I would respect him and what I might want
in return. Only after these fundamental questions were answered
would Harry consider the important act of creating a loving and
lasting bond.
We are conditioned by the media to expect immediate love and we
expect even more immediacy from dogs. But why should that be so?
Most dogs don’t have such elevated expectations of their humans
falling quite naturally into step with their human families.
Harry—much like the street-wise teenagers he reminded me of—was
not willing to exchange an instant bond for a treat. The
relationship we would create would have to be built upon the
four elements of courage, trust, respect and love.
What I was learning was so inspirational and life-altering to me
I hoped that in sharing my experience, I might bring some
enlightenment to others. I discovered that I was far from alone
in my experiences with my aggressive dog. Many people confided
secretly to me that their beloved dog growled with intimidation
at visitors, or had bitten the postman, the child next door,
themselves or a family member. Others confided in hushed tones
that their dog lunged viciously at other dogs while walking, or
had attacked other dogs, killed squirrels or their neighbor’s
cat. Many told me with incredible regret how they had euthanized
their aggressive dog, believing there was no alternative. It is
as if an aggressive dog is to be kept secret—in the proverbial
closet—where we once hid issues of child and sexual abuse.
What was all this telling me? It seemed that many people,
including me, weren’t seeing themselves, their dogs and their
relationships clearly. Not intentionally, but because we didn’t
know any other way. Some people became mired in self-doubt,
blame and guilt. Others abjectly denied problems. Still others
projected blame onto breeds, their partners, or others.
Dangerous dogs are a growing social problem (In the US there are
4.7 million dog bites per year, 800,000 are serious. Dog bites
are the leading cause of facial disfigurement in children). We
need to talk about it, read about it, recognize it as a problem
and understand what we can (and cannot) do about it.
My fall from innocence was one the most profoundly moving
experience of my life and proved to me that with a little
courage to face my fears I could do whatever I set myself to do.
I wrote a book to help others learn to navigate their personal
challenges, heal emotional wounds and become committed to
bringing about genuine acceptance among all people and all
beings. The Four Elements of Healing are a powerful paradigm for
living a full and deeply compassionate and conscious life for
yourself, for others and for our world.
Harry and I healed each other. It took almost two years to undo
what our original miscommunication created. Now he is a very
happy dog with a fun-loving, mischievous character. I trust him
and he trusts me. We communicate. Most of all he is safe for
everyone and anyone to be around. Harry is my close companion,
my trusted friend and my constant reminder to live by the
principles of the Four Elements of Healing. I love him.
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