Coping with a Dog with Anxiety

I read somewhere recently that Millennials aren‘t buying houses with yards to have space for their kids — they're doing it for their dogs.

I understand that feeling pretty intensely. I made a really dumb (and wonderful) decision in June 2018 to adopt a dog. I did tons and tons of research, and although my finances probably weren't where they should have been, I charged blindly into puppy parenthood with a can-do attitude and a mountain of paper towels.

I wasn't prepared for a few things — extensive chewing, waking up at 5 am, everything EVERYWHERE smelling like pee. But the biggest thing I wasn't prepared for was how horrible I felt when my dog — MY DOG — was diagnosed with anxiety.

The story isn't extensive, but it isn't a fun one. I went on a business trip and left her with a boarder for six days. When she got home, she was skittish, scared of her kennel, scared of me, and did nothing but sleep and vomit for two days. The vet took her under observation for a full day, then took an entire hour out of her busy schedule to call me and talk through what she thought happened. She was careful to caution me that we'll never know exactly what happened during that boarding (since it's not exactly like we can just ASK Piglet), and that it's not worth going after the boarder since it's my dog's symptoms against their word, but the symptoms and signs the vet saw in Pig were the same she saw in dogs who came from hoarding situations, abusive kennels, and abandonment situations.

I was absolutely devastated. The next few days were tough. We took plenty of time each day to sit with Pig and talk to her and rub her belly. I decked out her bed with a heating pad wrapped in two of our tee shirts. The vet prescribed Solliquin (pretty much the puppy equivalent of melatonin), which knocks her out most of the time but definitely makes a huge difference in her nerves.

It's been a permanent change. She was a spunky, friendly puppy before, and she's still spunky and friendly today, but there's a hesitance to her that wasn't there before. She freaks out at loud noises, runs and hides in the bedroom if a box falls over, turns into a quaking mess anytime we have to take her to the vet. Sometimes she'll sit in her favorite sunny window and just whine until I come over and sit with her. If she can't find me, she'll paw at every door and panic until I reappear.

In the last few months, my own anxiety has been mounting, and I've found that my dog responds to it and becomes more anxious if she sees that I'm upset. In a weird way, she and I give each other comfort because I have to force myself to calm down so she'll calm down, and she'll come over and lick my face to make sure everything's okay. Maybe some of it is projection — my own fears about her puppy PTSD and wanting to protect her from every danger, and my strange fixation on mortality (hers as well as mine). But most of all I just feel guilty.

It sucks. I still feel like it was my fault. But she's still my wonderful amazing idiot puppy, and I love her with all my heart.

There's something really amazing about seeing her starting to exhibit the signs of her anxiety, and knowing exactly how to fix them and make her feel better. By taking the time to help her out and calm her down, I make myself feel better and more content in the process. Her bed is under her favorite sunny window by my desk, and there's very little that gives me more of a sense of peace than looking over at her bed to find her conked out, upside down with her feet in the air, her heating pad on, her tummy full of breakfast — the happiest little dog in the world.

She's a trooper. She's badass. She's an idiot. And I love her.

Millennials and their dogs. What are you gonna do?