Two years and three days ago I met a girl.

I’d been working hard on shots so I could get a dog, and decided a cottage vacation at Best Friends in Kanab would be a great test run. I could borrow a dog there. And I’d already wanted to meet Feebee specifically because a friend had fostered her, and thought we’d be a good fit.

How right he was. We were both medium energy, clever, middle-aged gals. We love naps, snacks, cuddles, and taking our sweet distractible time on hikes. We got to it right away.

But two years and two days ago I saw her reacting to dogs, cats, and people. One moment she was happily tromping along with me, and the next, out of nowhere, she was lunging and snapping. She even had a bite on record.

They say Dog Reactivity is like PTSD: it’s never gonna go away, but symptoms can be managed with some effort. So I instinctively tried my own PTSD grounding techniques. They seemed to help, but only in the moment. Taking responsibility for her would be hard.

Two years and a day ago now, I ugly cried as I said goodbye to sweet, lovable, unadoptable Feebs. She cried too. I understood by then why so many folks loved to visit her but couldn’t take her home. She needed more than I had, and while I ticked some boxes (no other animals to conflict, no small children with friends to react to) I missed the mark on others: I had no yard, a noisy city, and no partner to help handle the responsibility of a dog with special needs.

Still.

Two years ago today, I started to nurture the idea that maybe, somehow, I could make it work. That even though our situation might not be ideal, maybe we could be enough for each other. I realized that even if her reactivity (and my PTSD for that matter) might never go away fully, life is short, especially for dogs.

Perhaps we could make the most of it together. So now I’ve got this dog who freaks out frequently. So we practice grounding on the daily. I’ll say “Feebee! Where is your nose?” and she’ll give me her nose. “Where are your ears?” and I can scratch them. “Where is your tail?” and she wags it and smiles. “You’re still here! You’re okay!”

It feels more like a distraction than anything, and hasn’t really stopped her from being reactive overall, but I never could have guessed how much that constant practice would help me heal.

I’m so lucky I got to find out.