Rescue Dog Framework Step 1: Calm Your Own Energy First

I've put a great deal of thought into how my Rescue Dog framework might look on paper. How I could possibly teach the approach to others. It's so deeply personal that I find it difficult to put it into words or methods that could be followed by others. So I will go back to my days as an Animal Care technician to find the words.

I remember Charlie. Charlie was a small dog, maybe between 5 to 7 pounds. My first meeting with the little dog was in the clinic kennels. I walked through the kennels looking over the charts and notes left for each dog, when I reached a chart with a bright orange sticker on it that said, Caution. At this time I hadn't come across many Caution stickers so I looked into the kennel to see what all the warning signs were about. There he was, little Charlie. He had pushed himself into the farthest back corner of his run and immediately started to growl.

I left him and went to talk to the clinic staff to try and get a history on him. Charlie, well he was known around the clinic as an impossible dog. He would snap, bite, growl, and run just as soon as you would look at him. The doctors always had a very difficult time handling him, no matter how basic the procedure. They would have to restrain and muzzle him to keep him still long enough to treat or check him. The more I uncovered about the little dog the tighter the knot in my chest became. I was devastated to learn how he was being treated. It wasn't because the staff was cruel or unkind, but if you work in any medical field, the flow of the day is constant and unyielding. If you stay too long with one patient, then everyone after that is pushed back and appointment times are sometimes impossible to keep, with few opportunities to catch up! But I digress.

After learning what I needed I went back to Charlie. I knew I had to shake off any anxiety and excess energy before I went in to see him. I took a few deep breaths, made sure I wouldn't be needed elsewhere any time soon, and walked in. Charlie immediately moved as far away from me as he could. If he could have, he would have willed the walls to open and swallow him. But neither of us was magic.

Once inside I didn't look at him, I didn't call to him, I simply sat down sitting sideways so I wasn't facing him with my body. I sat myself right against the kennel door, trying to create as much space as I could for him. And then I waited. And waited. And waited. I would fiddle with my uniform or pick at my nails. Something idle so to not raise the anxiety in the room. At one point I pulled my knees to my chest and rested my head on them. Still looking away. Always looking away.

And then I heard it. The clinking of dog tags. I turned my head just enough to see Charlie from the corner of my eye. He was next to me, sniffing me, assessing me. That's when I said his name and offered my hand. Not towards him, but outwards. An offer with no pressure. An offer anyone could take. I was getting excited by the progress, but I had to stuff it down. Even the best of intentions can be taken the wrong way during these sensitive moments. He approached my hand and I lowered my knees to open my body up to communicate I wasn't tense or scared. I was just open to receive whatever he was willing to give.

I slowly pet his side, not his head, you don't want to seem like you are coming down on them. I started to talk to him softly while stroking his side. When he jumped into my lap, tail wagging, and trying to lick my face I thought the elation would burst from my chest. I cradled him and scratched his head. We did it. He did it.

After that day whenever I would see Charlie I would make the effort to sit with him in his run and spend a little extra time taking him for his walks. One day while he was sitting in my lap, almost dozing off, one of the doctors came in, as soon as he looked in at us, I could feel Charlie go rigid and he emitted a low growl. I held him close to my chest. I protected him with my body. And he very quickly calmed down. The Vet looked at me with wide eyes, "I've never seen anyone hold that dog like that before." I looked up from petting Charlie, "I guess no one has taken the time to get to know him." I smiled.

From that day forward whenever Charlie came to the Vet I was called to take him from his owners and handle him during appointments. The trade off for simply some of my time and patience was a confident dog that was no longer afraid. After Charlie I did the same with other dogs that were labeled with Caution stickers and warning tape. The same approach became how I showed up for people. Calm energy, ground myself, offer your presence with no expectations of getting anything in return.

I want to reflect on something I mentioned earlier: Even the best of intentions can be taken the wrong way during these sensitive moments. Some people might say that intention matters and in some places I am sure that is true. However it has been my experience that even the most wholesome, kind, well-meaning intentions can cause more harm than good. Our intentions are our expectations. The person you are trying to help will not always be in a position to interpret or infer your intentions and when we get a negative reaction to our positive intentions, we can often times feel rejected and hurt. "Why do they have to get shitty with me? I was just trying to help!"

I've seen this time and time again with the survivors I served doing Advocacy. Friends and family would hold such resentment towards survivors for not accepting what they offer. But what we fail to see is that we are not meeting them where they truly are. In that moment. That second. So often we want to believe survivors are further along than they might actually be. We want that, for them and ourselves. But what we want and what is are not always the same. Even survivors try to imagine themselves further along than they really are. Who wouldn't want to get the hard things over with? In both cases it is a mismatching of expectations.

So we have to slow down and acknowledge where a survivor truly is, and reassure them that it is okay. That their timeline is just fine. That we will be there to help them reach that next step. Just like with Charlie, the Vets didn't mean him any harm, they weren't trying to be cruel. They were trying to help, but none of that mattered to Charlie. He only knew what he felt in that moment and that was afraid.

My partner displayed that same approach when he came home to find me cowering in my fortress of pillows and blankets. Just like I learned more about Charlie before I approached him, I had expressed many of my fears and uncertainties regarding his return. I watched his face when he came hurriedly through the door, it was like a switch had flipped. The recognition on his face, the way he slowed his pace, how he limited his movements. It looked like he was facing off with a crocodile or a terrified child. Fight or flight. Years of being together though, he knew me better than anyone, he knew I was closer to a terrified child than a crocodile any day of the week.

I watched him like a hawk, eyes honing in on every little movement. He kept his face a kind of happy neutral. I could feel his eagerness dissipate as though the worn wooden floor beneath him was drawing it from his being. To be absorbed by the foundations of the home we both inhabited. 

Now before you start to compare yourself to my partner or start to wonder how the hell he knew what to do, you need to remember; he was an officer in the military for 25 years. And he started that as a medic. For years he had been honing his leadership skills, learning how to encourage the best out of anyone serving under or with him. A trait he has now carried over into his civilian life. But the battlefield is not the same as the home. It took trust and relationship building between the two of us to get to where we are now. Don’t let our progress keep you from making your own.

Don't wait for crisis to learn deeply about those around you. Prioritize later now, as Jimmy Carr says. Have the hard talks, be brave. Your future self will thank you. Trauma is complicated, but how we help people doesn't have to be.

Best wishes & ferret kisses.