Patch

In Writing for Wellbeing, we often write about our loved ones, not least our furred friends. Some of these relationships are our most meaningful and rewarding. I love this piece by Nina Kelly about beloved rescue dog Patch. JBx

Thank goodness I have Patch. I saved her life, but she saves mine regularly. On days like today – I know she feels my pain. She gets me and I get her. Once she was a terrified, needy, anxious, aggressive, dislikeable creature. Even the vet told me to muzzle her as she was bound to bite someone one day and what would I do if she bit a little child. Other people would look after her for a few hours, but her neediness, her fear of life, her fear being hurt, then her fear of anything threatening the place of safety she had finally found at the end of her life – made her unmanageable. I knew what she needed. She just needed to feel safe.

My therapeutic foster care training came back in bucketloads as I gently guided her through the terrors that each day held for her. Doors were terrifying. Every night she dragged her bed in front of the bedroom door so no one could get in without tipping her out of bed and each morning she viciously and ferociously attacked the door when I opened it to get up.

The brush, mop and vacuum cleaner held especial terrors. They too were aggressively assailed each time I tried to take them out. Sport programmes seemed to trigger especial angst – even watching Wimbledon seemed to trigger frightening memories for her. The time when Ian and Ben shouted at the football match on the television her base fear took over to the point that these two tall six-foot two people were standing on the sofa furious with her, furious with me for allowing a dangerous animal into their home. She was never welcome there again.

Patch guarded her space – her bed like it was a fortress that no-one should – could come near. It was only there that she could possibly contemplate a ceasefire with her fears. If I approached – she emitted a low warning growl, that quickly turned into a snarl that turned into an open-mouth savage bark that even the rats know to recoil from.

Sometimes her anxiety would take hold during the night and she would bark all night long, convinced that a menacing presence was going to make itself known at any moment. However, if she was asleep – I learnt never, ever, ever wake her up. Her crazed eyes make her leap up ready to pounce, to protect her territory – her safe place at all costs.

She worried at her leg constantly. It was red, raw and infected. Trying to get anti-biotic cream on her was almost impossible and putting her head collar on sent her into a frenzy. All my other dogs were happy being picked up for a little cuddle, but for Patch that was an unwelcome intrusion for which she would have also drawn blood to avoid.

She did bite me once. It was my fault. I was on the phone and distractedly pulled the plaster off her leg which had been put on to stop her from worrying her leg. I didn’t blame her. I knew her better than that. I got her. Doors – were they the cause of her lovely long tail – crooked and broken in the middle, or fear of the unknown or even the known at what kind of violence might ensue and come through that door. Sports programmes – it’s a fact that domestic violence increases during football games. Was that her experience? Mops, brushes, - well given that her default when I first got her was to run into the kitchens of any passing restaurant or coffee shop – I can only assume that she was well acquainted with the use of a judiciously used brush to eject her back out. As for her safe space – her fortress – her bed. It was the only place she felt she could be free from the tyranny of rage and violence that might have been her lot as a homeless dog, sleeping rough on the streets.

And yet – how wonderfully a dog learns to trust – to believe, to change. They seem to do it so much easier than humans. I can now bend down and kiss her nose while she is lying asleep in her bed. I learnt how to put my body between myself and errant mops and brushes that needed to clean the floors. The bedroom door is testament to how long it took her to believe that no-one was going to come into our safe place in the middle of the night and hurt us. But she did. And now, as long as the door is left ajar so she can patrol her territory and make sure no one is around, the door is left alone.

As long as I am around, she feels protected, calm, happy. As long as we go through our nighttime safety rituals- close the blinds, draw the curtains, check the back garden, lock the front and back doors, she settles down. The nighttime terrors are a thing of the past. Rugby, tennis, football are all welcome on our television.

How much longer does she have on this earth? One day, one month, one year or five? Will I have to make the call one day for that trip to the vet – only to be told she needs to be allowed to pass. Leave her to move on without any more pain. I can’t think about it. I can’t prepare for it. I will have to deal with it when it comes.

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Patch