Bindi Newman
We entered dog ownership naïve but confident. Gracie the cavoodle arrived and we joined the park life. Three kids, a dog and an SUV doing the Saturday sports run, lattes in hand. Life was good.
After five years, our much-loved Gracie was diagnosed with aggressive lymphoma and died. We were devastated. The house felt wrong without her.
Freddy arrived as COVID-19 descended. We’d decided on another cavoodle. Gracie had been everything we’d hoped for. Freddy was a little bigger, a little more spotty, and our hearts were full again.
Fast-forward through the COVID years and Freddy seemed overly barky when people came to the house, rushing to the door, death-staring guests across the room. I offered lame excuses to smooth the rejection felt by our dog-loving visitors. He doesn’t like big coats. He’s scared of umbrellas. Tall people. It’s me, not you.
A dog psychologist was enlisted at the suggestion of our vet. A home visit was arranged to see Freddy in his natural habitat. I cleaned the house in an attempt to show we were good dog parents and had quiet words with Freddy that this was in his best interest.
She came, observed, asked lots of questions, and brought a folder of cheerful-looking help sheets for anxious dogs. He was put on a mental health plan. We learned about his subtle anxiety cues in social settings: whale eyes, lip licking, panting. I had whale eyes when I got the bill.
The kids refused to walk beside our high-vis family member and his walking billboard: I’m anxious, give me space. My vest would have read: Failed dog owner.
BINDI NEWMAN
The next step was a high-vis vest to warn well-meaning passers-by that he was not open to pats from strangers. The kids refused to walk beside our high-vis family member and his walking billboard: I’m anxious, give me space. My vest would have read: Failed dog owner. Freddy and I tried to hold our heads high.
It was short-lived. The vest turned out to be a magnet for dog-whispering strangers who appeared without warning, arms outstretched. “Awww, cute poor anxious puppy. I’m good with dogs.” Freddy’s lip-licking RPM spiked. I started telling people he was a rescue animal to conceal my dog-training shortcomings.
We moved house and forgot to monitor Freddy in the chaos. An unexpected altercation, and the removalist showed us freshly laid teeth marks, luckily through a layer of clothing so that no blood was drawn. I took down the cartoon drawings of what anxiety looks like in dogs and moved into risk management in the new house.
The rapid departure of the removalist confirmed it for Freddy: biting worked where his subtle warning signals had gone unnoticed. He wasted no time, narrowly missing a distant family member’s leg as she innocently entered the room he was in. A new low.
We rallied and tried to step up our responsibilities. Meds were upped, he was uninvited from social gatherings. The vet suggested we keep his world small and predictable. Morning walks followed a fixed route; he had a panic room when new people came to the house.
My fear that he would bite someone became so heightened that we decided on a muzzle for vet visits. I scoured American sites showing large Dobermanns and Alsatians on tight, thick leads, peering over mouth cages with confident menace.
It was hard to find a cavoodle-sized option. We eventually tracked one down that promised comfort in a tonal colour. On arrival, Freddy and I both looked disappointed.
The vet’s waiting room is the worst. We sit Silence of the Lambs-style in the darkest corner, Hannibal and Clarice averting our gaze from small children with pointing fingers and parents with pained smiles. The visits are frequent, though. Freddy drew the genetic short straw: dermatitis, food allergies, Petri dish-shaped ears that host regular fungal infections, and a heat-seeking attraction to things he shouldn’t eat: socks, garlic, chocolate, grapes.
On top of the anxiety meds there are essential oils, probiotics, creams, drops, specialised shampoos and human-grade gourmet single-protein meal deliveries. The vet is kind. The bills are massive.
Freddy has been part of our family for six years now. Looking back, I’m not sure if we were lucky to find each other or not. I still question my role in his anxiety, despite assurances from well-meaning vets that it’s genetic. I can’t help thinking that the COVID years were as hard on him as they were on a generation of teenagers. If he’d had a phone, he’d have been in his room doom-scrolling, too.
But despite the challenges for him, for us and our nervous houseguests, he greets us with full-body happiness as we walk through the door, offers the best cuddles when there’s sadness, and is a prize-winning knee warmer at TV time.
Freddy is not the dog we were expecting. But he is the dog we have, and we love him dearly.
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