Button's Fears and Nightmares
She's just a little dog. When she was young she was thin and gangly, long legs and long hair. She's a cross between a Pomeranian and a Poodle, but it is the Poodle in her which has asserted itself, and it's her Poodle genes also which dictate her intelligence, behaviour and temperament. She is black, but a soft, not startlingly-dark black, and she has grey stars here and there; back of her two back legs, under her tail, on her throat. She must have been the least prepossessing of her litter, as when I saw her first, she was the only one left. I was anything but indifferent to her presence, and had determined to enhance our lives with the presence of a little dog, and she was It.
Dog, you call that a dog, asked my husband in utter incredulity when I brought her home, tucked inside my winter jacket on a truly frigid day of snow and wind. It was rare that I would do anything without consulting him, without his being present when the big decision was made, but he made it clear when I'd broached the topic with him weeks earlier that he wasn't dreadfully interested in adopting another dog after such a long period that we lived without one. So off I'd gone, with our daughter, who advised me how to determine whether a dog would be of good character - look them directly in the eye and they should look away after a second or two. Turn him over onto his back and if he lets you do that, he'll be reasonably biddable.
The little black dog passed, and in any event, she was the only one present; none of her siblings to try those character-traits out with. Once I held her I was hooked, in any event. Her large dark button eyes regarded life seriously and they melted any doubts I might have harboured. So here we are, twelve years later, and we love her dearly, and still ponder the mysterious nature of dogs, the wonder of their willingness, nay eagerness to live with people, and the enjoyment they are capable of adding to our lives.
As a puppy Button was easily socialized with other dogs, and she knew no fear, easily moving with confidence toward a dog whose face was as large as she was in her entirety. On the other hand, if while walking she heard a dog barking in the distance she would become instantly alarmed and begin to panic. For that reason we always hesitated to take her off leash even when we felt reasonably secure about her safety because we were walking in the green embrace of a forested trail.
We learned soon enough that she was fearless to a point. Noise bothered her, particularly sudden, sharp sounds. And flying insects, she soon came to learn could not only be a nuisance but a downright danger to her, their stings causing pain and swelling and acute discomfort. On two occasions during hikes in the woods she became completely inundated with what seemed to be swarms of deer flies, burrowing deep into her coat. We'd had to rescue her, clenching her body close and running with her to outdistance the determined flies. She'd been stung badly by a wasp once, and had to receive medical treatment. So she learned to be wary, to pick up her pace to escape to freedom from the presence of those pests.
I'm not quite certain when we became aware of her nightmares. But it must have been from the time she was young, for she often whimpers, cries, even barks faintly when she sleeps. We try to comfort her, stroke her body until she becomes aware, blinks open her eyes, then settles back into sleep, untroubled. When this happens at night she wakes us up, and we reach down, one or the other of us, with our feet, to gently rock her so she can awaken, realize all is well and fall back to sleep.
There are times when this isn't sufficient, when one of us has to sit up, reach over to the foot of the bed where she sleeps and gently stroke and speak to her assuringly, in an attempt to get beyond the obvious fear of her nightmare. Whatever can she be dreaming of? An encounter with an aggressive and large dog, one whom she finds herself unable to evade? An attack by a swarm of malevolent wasps?
Coming down off a mountain hike a year ago we did happen to walk into a swarm of wasps, circling in a yellow maelstrom only two feet above the trail and a few managed to sting her before we made our escape.
But her fears far predate that occurrence. It served only as yet another reason why the world appears to her from time to time to be threatening and dark and terrifying. We can only wonder what it might have been back in the time of her puppyhood, perhaps even before we took possession of her, that might have given her such a lasting sense of doom. Perhaps she simply has a bit of a neurotic personality.
She does exercise a certain type of dominance in this house whereby her wish is law. She communicates ably with us, letting us know just exactly what her expectations are, and we generally comply, as they're never unreasonable. She has a wonderful vocabulary, understanding without hint of hesitation what it is we say to her in a language not known as caninespeak.
But there doesn't appear to be anything we can do to wean her away from these nighttime visitations of fear and foreboding. Guess the best thing we can do is to continue what we've always done; comfort her when it's possible, help her over the hump of her reaction through the nightmare to the peace of reassurance.
posted by Pieface @ Sunday, September 03, 2006
<< Home