I Adopted an Abandoned Stray Dog. Our Short Time Together Helped Me Understand My Own Trauma.

Until my mid-30s, I was like a lot of women I know. Nice guys were boring, and those who wouldn’t commit were exciting — but only because it felt like they might slip through my fingers at any moment.

Then, about a year before I met Chris, I took a course called ”How to Find Love.” The class explained that the love we learned from our parents, as children, is familiar and therefore the most comfortable, no matter how dysfunctional. This was a revelation; my life came into focus.

I spent my childhood afraid of taking a wrong step, always desperate to remain in my mother’s good graces. I did whatever I could, for 20 years, to keep her happy. My mother ended our relationship in my 20s, but in that class I saw that she was still haunting my love life. This was why I dated men who made me work for their affection, men who were entirely unreliable.

When I was 6 years old, I copied (to the best of my ability) the lyrics to “Straight Up” by Paula Abdul to give to my “boyfriend.” I suppose I felt he had one foot out the door. In college, I dated a very nice young man who told me, early in our relationship, that we would need to break up as soon as we graduated because he didn’t want any impediments to the beginning of his career. And so that’s what we did.

Then I spent most of my 20s with Drew. To be fair, he didn’t slip through my fingers, because he was never in my grasp. We lived pretty much independently, and I told myself I liked it that way. I’m not sure I entered his mind unless I was right in front of him, or he needed something from me. I’d go out to dinner with friends and then come home with my leftovers or takeout for Drew. It only took me about seven years to realize that he was entirely uninterested in me.

Among his many lovable traits, Chris is steady, solid. I felt proud when I accepted his marriage proposal: I had finally kicked my habit of being with men who were bad for me.

But that wasn’t entirely true, because when Chris proposed, our dog Dojo was standing beside me. Not in a loyal way. Dojo always stood with his back to me, looking indifferently — deliberately — in another direction. Anywhere but at me.

Personality and behavior-wise, Dojo was the embodiment of all my worst exes. And when we got him, I slipped right back into my old habits.

**

Chris and I had been looking to adopt a dog when our friend called to say she found an adorable little dog in her back garden. She’d already taken him to a vet to be checked out. He had no chip and was about 4 years old.

We told each other we would only go to meet him, but I bought a crate and leash. Dojo was emaciated and extremely timid, but pliant, plucky. We took him home. He explored our apartment but sat apart from us. Because we didn’t know how long he had gone without food, we fed him very small meals, frequently. He ate well and curled into the bed we had bought him. We walked about four miles on our first weekend together, and he seemed happy to be out with us.

When we finally had legal ownership of Dojo, the vet told us he was at least 8, maybe older. I sobbed at this news. I’d had an old dog before and our last year together was a series of emergency vet visits, tears and anxiety. But how I felt didn’t really matter; we were in it already.

We bought a very long lead and worked on recall, but Dojo wasn’t interested in responding to us in any way. Since it was still pandemic-times, we organized dog training on Zoom. Our trainer, who was lovely and skilled, told us Dojo was without a doubt the most damaged case he had ever encountered. We focused on building his confidence and comfort with us. Dojo was afraid of the clicker, so instead we made a soft “cluck” with our tongues. We moved slowly, quietly, with his favorite treats, but he jumped away any time we tried to touch his head.

Eventually Dojo put on weight but remained fearful and anything but accommodating. He and I existed together in the same way Drew and I had: We shared a space and he depended on me for food. I forgave him this, because he was a dog.

More than anything, I wanted to brutally attack whoever had hurt him. I had daydreams about encountering someone Dojo seemed to know and then telling them in excruciating detail how much pain they had caused a defenseless animal. But there was no time for revenge, because soon we began the long slide of keeping him comfortable and alive.

Like when he had geriatric vestibular syndrome, a kind of vertigo old dogs get. He was loopy and sick, huddled in his bed and unable to stand. It was one of the few times he let me hold him, probably because he couldn’t manage to get away.

“It’ll be OK,” I whispered to him. “You know we’ll always take care of you” — a vow I didn’t know would become an extremely common refrain. After a panicked trip to the vet, we were given some anti-nausea medication and told to wait it out. He wouldn’t take his medicine, so he was too sick to eat — for days and days.

I thought bone broth might help with his nausea, but all the bone broth at the butcher was prepared with onions and garlic, which is toxic to dogs. Until this point, I hadn’t purchased or handled meat for a decade. But I bought organic, free-range chicken that cost more than my typical weekly grocery bill. The skin was, well, skin. I gagged, put my ethical qualms aside and tipped the legs and thighs into a big pot. In stages, I froze the broth into the ice cube tray, transferred the cubes to a bag, and several times each day I warmed the broth on the stove and served it with bits of chicken. It was the only thing Dojo would eat until he got better. But it did not change his behavior toward me.

**

Drew2 (yes, there were two Drews, not Andrews) took three years to say he loved me, his face contorted in a way that the rational me thought This isn’t right, while the prideful me thought I told ya so. He broke up with me a few times a year, but it never lasted. To keep him comfortable, I gave him space. I didn’t ask him to be my date to weddings or to accompany me to family events. I never expected him to come to my house. When he took too much interest in an attractive new co-worker or Airbnb guest in his house share, I looked the other way. He told me, “Monica, people can’t belong to each other.”

After Drew2, I swore I would never again chase someone to be with me. But it turned out Dojo was my literal exception. He was always jumpy outside, likely overstimulated by all the activity. One unusually warm and sunny day, we were out for a walk when his collar snapped open. I stood dumbly holding his useless leash while he sniffed a pole. I thought he might cut me a break, just this once, but he didn’t. The moment I approached him to put the collar back on, he trotted away. So I tried even harder to not spook him. He wasn’t especially fast, but each time I got close to him, he took off again as soon as I touched him.

**

There was a span of a few months when Dojo was healthy in all respects. But he wasn’t fully in my grasp. He was always slipping away and bouncing back.

He needed to be neutered to prevent any further health issues, but I sobbed with worry from the moment I left him until the vet called to say he was all right. He was diagnosed with kidney disease and refused to eat his special diet for weeks on end. When he finally began eating well, the repeat UTIs began, which were traced to an unexplained mass on his bladder. His back legs grew weaker and more wobbly, he had repeat eye infections and worsening cataracts, and chronic diarrhea that kept all of us awake. There were countless nights spent on the couch, Chris and I taking turns to sleep, puppy pads carpeting our apartment.

**

After Drew2, there was Liam. He provided a quintessential whirlwind romance abroad, complete with the weeks-in revelation that he was an abusive narcissist. In the beginning, he surprised me with a trip to the beach. He cycled across the whole of London to see me before I returned to the U.S., and after, flew over to visit me many times. Then he called me a “cunt” on the corner of Massachusetts Avenue and North Capitol Street. He threw his suitcase across my apartment and slammed the door. He regularly called me on his way to work, at 2 a.m. my time, to reassure himself that I was home and alone. I grew accustomed to turning my phone volume up when I went to bed, so I didn’t miss his call and send him into a jealous tailspin, which always resulted in a series of brutal voicemails and text messages. He deserted me in Brighton for reasons I still don’t understand. But, as with my earlier boyfriends, I thought I just needed to try harder to win him over.

When we first brought him home, Dojo was lively on walks, ate well and slept through the night. Then green stuff started leaking out of his penis, he stopped walking up inclines of any kind, and he began making disgusting lip-smacking noises in the middle of the night. I’d often wake up to him drinking from his water bowl, or taking a walk around the flat. We put rugs down nearly everywhere, but he always managed to find a bare spot, skid around on his bad legs, and crash into something. On unlucky nights, he paced for hours on end. Then he’d sleep all day, his adorable face buried deep in his bed, tongue peeking out of his mouth.

**

No matter the medicine, Dojo absolutely refused to take it. He’d lick off all the cream cheese and leave a soggy pill on his plate. I’d like to say I responded with patience, but I couldn’t. I’d yell at him: Do you think I’m trying to poison you? I’m trying to help you! I tried hiding his pills in chicken, and pumpkin, and Babybel, and peanut butter ― all fruitless attempts to fool him.

Desperately, I cried. I cried to the vet, to Chris, to Dojo. I cried alone. On one 3 a.m. diarrhea walk, it occurred to me how easy it would be to just drop the leash and go back inside. He wouldn’t even notice I was gone.

But I couldn’t let go of him, not like that. My mother let go of me, and I noticed. Her abandonment remained with me as an unshakable rationale for never giving up on Dojo. I thought, maybe I’ll die of sleep deprivation, be bankrupted by his medical bills. But what if? What if Dojo feels love for maybe the first time in his life?

**

We moved to a house with a private backyard, a peaceful place for only him. We walked our quiet street, and Dojo took his time to sniff anything he wanted.

Then one day, he woke up from a nap and vomited. The vet said it was a “physiological event.” I still don’t know what that means, exactly, but I knew it was bad.

On Dojo’s last night, he let me lay him on the couch, and Chris and I sat on either side of him. It was the way I wish we could have spent every night of our lives together. Chris fed him roasted chicken by hand. Then Dojo looked at me and held my gaze steady — a rarity. I knew what it meant. He’d heard me, all the times in our too-few years together, when I promised we would always take care of him, no matter what.

After his death, when I blithely opened a letter that contained a tuft of Dojo’s fur and paw prints — a kindness from the vet — I was left shaking with grief. Chris took the envelope and put it … somewhere. I still don’t know where.

I thought that chasing Dojo’s love put me back in the role of pathetic girlfriend. It wasn’t until months after he was gone that I realized Dojo had been on the same journey I had taken, on my way to Chris. We shared a series of disappointments and mistreatment and, understandably, he still wasn’t sure he could trust me. There are days I still look at Chris and wonder, How?

**

Dojo hated the rain. If we were ever caught out in it, I’d try to dry him off once we got back inside. I tested a small towel in various colors, a knit glove, a shower mitt and paper towels. But no matter what I used, he would snap at me and run away.

And then he’d come back.

He’d stand with his body turned away from me, but within an arm’s reach. I would stretch until I felt my ribs pulling, just barely getting my fingernails into the thick fur of his cheeks for a good scratch, and he’d lean his head heavily into my hand and purr. On unspoken agreement, we moved no closer to each other, our six feet planted. It wasn’t trust, exactly, but some grace allowed him to test me, over and over.

I didn’t need Dojo in my grasp. I only had to show him that he had me, firmly, in his.

Dojo showed me myself. He reminded me every day that it’s hard to unlearn what we know, but what is familiar isn’t always right. Things can change, and sometimes, even, for the better.

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