Whenever I start to feel agoraphobic, like I can't even open my front door for fear of the sun like a vampire, I am reminded of our old family dog, Annalise (may she rest in peace). Annalise was a dachshund but she was not your typical slender "hot dog". Her belly was full and wide, and it dusted the floors on which she shuffled, her long toenails endlessly clicking against the hardwood. Her expression was always that of guilt and shame--for whatever reason was not aparent. She was also an agoraphobe.
Annalise and I were quite indifferent towards each other. For instance, if we were in the same room together, I would see her looking at me through her peripheral vision and I would say, "I know you're looking at me." And then we would stare at each other in an awkward silence until I would eventually reach down to pet her. But only slightly and very reluctantly. It was more like a couple quick pats to the top of her head. Then we would walk away in opposite directions like nothing happened and I would vigorously wash my hands because she was always covered in a greasy sheen and she was extremely odorous.
This makes it sound like I had no love for the poor dog, but I did. On one occasion, after she had eaten some moldy trash and was foaming at the mouth and having seizures in the drive way, I rushed her to the emergency vet and I wailed and sobbed thinking she was going to die and that I should've been nicer to her--I should have pet her for real. But when the veterinarian told me that she was going to live and that she had just eaten some trash and I could take her home, I was furious with her for wasting my Saturday like that. It was a love/hate relationship, I guess.
As to why the dog was agoraphobic, one will never know. Why do these things happen to any of us? But if anyone got it in their mind to take her for a walk, it was a sight to behold. She would sit in the doorway and look out into the world with fear and loathing in her eyes; just as I do sometimes. If you pulled at her collar to get her outside of the house, she would resist with all of her might and extra belly fat. She would have dug her toenails into the cement if she could. If you managed to get her onto the side walk, she would scurry as quickly as she could to find shelter from the cruel world under the safety of a parked car. All of the sweet, "Come on, girl."s were useless. So you were left there on the sidewalk, red in the face and seemingly alone (because an onlooker could not see the stubborn beast under the car), your good intentions manifesting into irritability and swear words. In the end, it was always the dog walker who was dragging their own nails across the cement to fish her out.
Maybe the reason for my indifference towards her was because she mirrored me in a way. I saw the same qualities in her that I loathed in myself. So one day I decided to make an effort in changing our relationship. I looked her in her shifty eyes and I said, "Look at me, Annalise. I am in my pajamas and I am going to the store like this. You are a dog, and you're supposed to like car rides. You're coming with me." I jingled the keys. She shook. I hoisted her dead weight up into my arms and carried her like a baby out to the car, her body seized in sheer terror. I drove to the convenient store with Annalise sitting beside me in the passengers seat, looking like a lamb being brought to slaughter. I encouraged her to look out the window at the beautiful day, but it was in fact a very dreary day, with dark clouds looming above us like a bad omen. And it was.
I went into the store, filled a cup with coffee, paid for it and walked back out to the car, where I could see Annalise looking frantically for me through a rain soaked windshield. Thunder boomed, the rain fell from the sky in whips and lashes. I quickly got in the car, looked at her and said with a smile, "See? That wasn't so bad, huh?" I imagine if she could talk, she would have had some choice words for me, or maybe she would have just said, "You're right. I quite enjoyed that car ride. Thanks for being decent." Who knows. I'm no Caesar Milan. So we drove out of the parking lot and down the street, through the underpass--except we never made it THROUGH the underpass. My car died in a large puddle right under the underpass. Cars lined up behind us and beeped, as if beeping would help start a dead car. I looked at Annalise, suddenly regretting bringing her for the ride, but at the same time relieved that I wasn't alone. Finally, a man walked up and helped me push the car out and on to the side of the road, Annalise still inside, shaking and having a near death experience. I stood outside with this man, in my pajamas, in the rain and he offered to give us a ride home. When I opened the passenger door, Annalise stared straight ahead, her toenails threatening to puncture the cars upholstery. I pleaded with her to jump down. "PLEASE, Annalise!" She shot me a glare that didn't take a dog whisperer to figure out what it meant. It was a look that said, "I am a lady, and I do not get in strange cars with strange men. And neither do you." And I knew that trying to get her into his car would be like trying to stick a cat in a tub full of water. So I sent the nice man on his way.
I once again lifted this dead weight of a dog and tucked her under my armpit like a football. And as we walked home in the pouring rain down a busy street, her tongue dangled from the side of her mouth and her stubby little legs jutted out in front of her, her hind legs stiff and straight behind her, as if she were superman, flying home to her safe haven, away from all the cryptonite that is this world. I loved and hated her so much that day. But I know that she felt courageous in this moment--maybe for the first time in her life. So it was worth it:)
