Angus notices everything. He was the puppy who came out the morning after a rainstorm and realized one of dozens of twigs was an earthworm, that the sound of water at one place on our street signaled a storm drain he could not see. Although Angus has done better as he has matured, he still gets overwhelmed sometimes when there are too many stimuli, particularly sounds from sources he cannot identify.
In the woods, he is a different dog, confident, fast, smelling and marking and joyful. He is the dog I see at agility lessons. I love the woods, the sounds that reflect time of day, turn of season. One day this spring, we went into a forest and I heard a new sound, a gentle peeping. Frogs had come out at a shallow pond. The sound stopped as we passed, and I wondered at the lives in this forest that go on or end every day, independent of our existence altogether.
Last weekend I took Angus to a trail in another part of the same forest. I heard the sound, but it was following Angus’s gaze that I saw the squirrel in a tree. The squirrel watched us and ate a pinecone. Angus’s tail wagged. Knowing Angus, who has a gentle heart for skunks, birds, toads, and the lone snake that made our acquaintance, he wanted to say hello.
After several years of agility-based lessons with a kind and very skilled trainer, I am better with Angus. I read his body language better, and I prevent problems more often. When he does balk at a sudden sound (try not jumping when you hear a gunshot in the forest), I am more patient, prepared to ignore him for a few seconds while he collects himself, then saying “Let’s go” cheerfully or just making a clucking sound and starting again. I have learned how to give him the chance to help himself.
My first lessons with patience under pressure came with Joseph and the help of his kind, world-class psychiatrist. Joseph was diagnosed with autism when he was two years old, and he started having panic attacks when he was three. This was years before Angus came, Joseph was my son, and I was not effective. I would plead with a minimally verbal child and fall apart in tears almost as often as he did. But with medication, behavioral help, and time to mature, Joseph got better. He found his way.
There are times when I do not have the patience or concentration to deal with a possible Angus breakdown, and I do not take him risky places then. Joseph likes to have the TV on at the same time he plays his iPod, and sometimes I leave the room because he may be able to deal with the noise, but I cannot.
When I watch Angus or Joseph struggle, I remember that I had panic attacks frequently in the first year after my head injury, 25 years ago. Most of them were in relatively busy places, the hospital, the mall, the supermarket. I have vivid memories of suddenly going into a ball with arms over my head at a supermarket about a month after the accident when the bright lights, overhead music, and busy criss-crossing of loaded carts were just too much. A woman turned the corner, nearly bumping me, and I went down as if artillery had gone off.
My dog has wonderful strengths, but he will always have weaknesses. Despite his athleticism and love of wild country, he will never be a dependable hiking companion. He is the most affectionate dog I have had and he sticks near Joseph regardless of how agitated Joseph gets, devotion to his boy outweighing his anxiety. Angus is a great dog.
Joseph loves to read, loves to sing. He has grown into a smiling, joyful child who draws people to him. He will never graduate from high school or go to college, but he will have a loving life and a positive impact on people who know him.
I cannot cure my dog or my child. I could not cure myself after I had a head injury and developed epilepsy. There is much in life we cannot cure, cannot undo. But we can heal, can come into balance with ourselves, can discover the best life we can live. My dog is doing that, my son has done it, and, perhaps, I have as well.
Elizabeth Coolidge-Stolz
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