I saw a dog the other day that looked much like one my friend had rescued from a pet shelter. The memories of my time with Arlo brought both a smile to my face, a tear to my eye, and gratitude for the few years we shared together.
This friend was working through some trauma, and a therapist recommended a rescue pet to help her ground her life moving forward. I'd heard of such therapy before, and hoped the bonding, responsibility and journey would help her rediscover herself and her safe place.
She was so drawn to Alro when they first met. The rescue center estimated Arlo's age at two or three, and he was about twelve pounds when they received him. Healthy weight would have been around twenty. He had been used as a bait dog to get more aggressive fighting dogs agitated. There were long scars down his neck and back. His left ear had been damaged to the point that it flopped, as you can see in the picture.
A few months later, I would meet Alro for the first time. My friend orchestrated the meeting carefully. She was sitting on her living room floor, comforting and assuring him that I was okay. We stayed like that for quite some time before I got up and sat at her table.
An hour or so later, we reconvened. This time I was allowed to be closer to them, and she and I held hands. We continued this slow introduction process as Arlo looked on, for it was vital that he did not sense any fear in her. Things seemed to be going well, and he even let me pet him in her lap. He had an expressive face, but there was something else there that I picked up on later that was more than just curiosity.
I stood to go to the toilet. As I turned to walk down her hall, Alro leapt from her lap and attacked my ankle. She gathered and calmed him, holding back her frightened tears. Arlo had not displayed that dimension of himself. It scared her horribly, and made her question what she had done wrong to cause or allow this.
For my part, I tried my best to remain sympathetic to his actions. There was really no way of knowing what brought this on, and I felt it was on me to refrain from any rash behavior. It was on me, and us, to take this slowly and understand, rather than judge.
During that and subsequent visits, I began to pay close attention to the situations where he feigned aggression or acted out. I took note of everything: what I wore, how I moved, my clothing, the environment around us, and where I was in relation to him. Putting all of my information together, and relating it to the few situations where he acted similarly around others, gave both of us a deeper understanding of this magnificent but disturbed soul.
The first was that one or more of his abusers likely had a similar physique to mine. It was also likely that the sounds of my synthetic pants I would wear, and the boots, were also relational. Most of his aggressive actions came when I was dressed like that.
The second was the unique way he would look at things. Staging some conditional lighting situations, we determined that his left eye had also been damaged, and that whenever there were shadowing movements to his left, he would tense up.
The third, which was part of what triggered his initial aggression, was that her toilet was near their bedroom. Their safe space. My association to a past aggressor caused him to react even more intensely if he saw me go that way. We resolved two ways: she would hold him in a more loving, reassuring way when I did that, and I would back away while looking and talking to him, as if asking permission.
When the terrible ghosts in his head were not resurrected, Arlo was the happiest, most loving and spirited dog I'd ever known. He got a kick out of hiking with me or us, and would get so happy when we pulled out his saddle bag for him to carry water, treats and waste bags. Mountainous hikes over ten miles were a breeze.
He was also a ladies' man. His natural demeanor around women, cute looks, and his charm encouraged cuddles and hugs from them all, and he never was aggressive to any of them. I teased him that I would start wearing a dress, just to keep the ghosts at bay!
After a few years, his demeanor began to revert back to that when he was rescued. Tearfully, my friend had to return him to a rescue center. but giving him the best three years of his life was enriching for both of us, and helped my friend immensely.
