Even Crazier Dog Lady

In the last two weeks, we have purchased anxiety medications (multiple), a white noise machine, a new yoga mat, and even downloaded a special “relaxing reggae” music playlist from Spotify. To an outsider, it looks like we are really getting into self-care and addressing some deep-seated issues. Well, we are working on issues alright, but not human ones. All of these purchases have been made for our little two year-old bichon frise, George.

We have been having problems with George being aggressive since the fall. Specifically, he has episodes where he freezes, growls, lunges, and attacks his big brother Charlie (our four year-old bichon, who is quite tired of all this agitated mess). We have consulted our regular veterinarian, who prescribed Prozac and a calming pheromone collar, then a behavioral trainer to help us in addition to the medication, and now, when those things did not entirely work and things seemed to be escalating, our vet referred us to a veterinary behavioral specialist. Yes, they exist—because people love their dogs more than they love themselves, and because we have somehow managed to take animals and give them things like anxiety, aggression, OCD, phobias, and the list goes on.

If you haven’t already: meet George, who has been diagnosed with genetic anxiety disorder. He is also clinically spoiled rotten.

Here is another picture of my aggressive problem-dog. Would you ever imagine?

It turns out, George was born with genetic anxiety disorder (hey buddy, I can relate). He is hyper-sensitive to the world around him; he jumps and barks at almost every sight and sound, and guards our house fiercely all day to the point of exhaustion. Because of that, he tends to also guard his resources and thinks he has to prevent anyone from taking his food, treats, toys…and has extended that to his owner and made him particularly possessive of me. At any inopportune time, if poor Charlie comes between me and George, George attacks. Even though they are small dogs, having them fight is scary and nerve wracking. Couple that with the fact that we have been told to separate them for hours afterward to let George cool off and have his cortisol levels come back down (which can take up to 72 hours!), and we are walking on eggshells around here. A friend asked, “But aren’t you used to having males fight over you?” and I told him, “Of course, I just don’t usually have to pay for their therapy.” Ba-dum-bum-ching!

It goes without saying that we would do anything for our dogs, and if we were crazy dog people before this aggression issue began, we are even crazier dog people now. We have to resolve the problem: one, because it is making our lives tense and miserable, and two, because if it continues to worsen, it isn’t safe for either dog and we would have to separate them. Read: George would have to find another place to live. And that just cannot happen. Once a Stancil, always a Stancil.

Our specialist spent just over an hour with all of us a few weeks ago and drew up a five page comprehensive (to say the least) treatment plan, with lots of handouts, resources, and homework. And so, we are diligently working through relaxation exercises on G’s yoga mat every day, changing from Prozac to Zoloft, and in constant communication with the specialist and trainer. We have a village at work here. The white noise machine is going, the reggae music is keeping things chill, there is a pheromone plug-in that is hopefully providing soothing scents for the little guy to help him relax…yes, we are being ruled by a fifteen-pound ball of floof right now, and we freely admit it. He would do it for us…as long as he isn’t feeling grouchy or anxious, that is. We have a running joke that instead of my ABCs, I now am ruled by the laws of ABD: Always Be Dogging.

Ah, the things we do for love (of our dogs). If you can, send up a prayer, a good vibe, or a relaxing thought for little George and his crazy dog lady owner. Or at least crank up the volume and think of us the next time you hear some Bob Marley jammin’ on the radio. Every little thing (we sure hope) is going to be alright.

Blog Post Title One

For Whom the Belle Tolls