It’s been a couple of weeks, y’all. After the HH was sick for almost 10 days (finally back at work), catching up with work took more out of me than I realized. Today’s (long!) post isn’t the usual lighthearted fare, but I hope it lifts spirits nonetheless.
I first learned about our dog, Jasper, after I saw his listing in a Facebook group for dogs that required “rehoming.”
Alongside a couple of photos of a somewhat mournful but otherwise very sweet-looking German Shepherd, the owner had written how Jasper was, more or less, the ideal dog: he never chewed anything in the house, never barked, could run up to 3km (about 2-½ miles) alongside you and could also stay home alone for 8 hours.
It was the eight hours alone that got me–that dog needed rescuing!
When we met up in a public part, the original description appeared accurate: Jasper was reserved, to say the least, sticking by his owner’s side, not making a sound, and seeming literally indifferent (if not oblivious) to Zoey’s many charms.
We learned that he’d been a rescue who’d lived with three other homes before this owner (we’d be the fifth), even though he was not yet four years old. How could we refuse?
Despite some niggling reservations (I mean, he was a 95-pound German Shepherd! That’s BIG! And they can be vicious! And who knows about his past treatment?--), we agreed to take him for a two-week trial. Then the owner was called away on a work trip, and the trial turned into a month.
Within that time, Jasper remained perfectly consistent, calm and docile. In fact, he was so well-behaved as to sometimes appear semi-comatose. He might have been a Stepford Dog or a canine version of one of those hapless humans invaded by the body snatchers.
For the first six weeks with us, Jasper never made a sound, not even when the FedEx delivery man walked right up to the front door and rang the bell. Not even when Zoey lost it and practically hurled herself through the window, all the while growling, snapping and barking at the top of her lungs. Jasper never barked. He never growled. He never yipped.
He sat quietly wherever you told him to stay, and didn’t move until you told him to. He seemed unacquainted with dog toys of any kind. He recognized Zoey and stayed near her but didn’t really interact.
Outside, he walked close to my side, ostensibly oblivious to the world around him and surrounding stimuli, including other dogs or animals (and one particular squirrel that practically ran across his front paws). He didn’t so much as glance toward food scraps or other edible garbage on the ground. When we ate something right in front of him, he didn’t beg. In fact, it appeared that he didn’t recognize the substance as food at all.
All we knew about this blank boy was that he’d been born in a shelter, had lived in Texas, and had a “rough life” before being adopted by his previous owner. His physical appearance seemed to confirm the difficult puppyhood: not only are there tiny scars around one eye, his cheek and along his haunch, he’s also missing the tip of one ear, and half of the tip of his tongue.
When we met with the owner for the final transfer, I asked, “Does he like peanut butter?”
The response: “He’s never had peanut butter.”
I asked what were his favorite treats. He’d only ever eaten liver treats, I was told. I almost burst into tears.
It was almost as if there was no “there” there, behind his eyes. I wondered if he’d live out his days without ever making a sound, or enjoying a treat, or chasing a ball.
Now fast forward to the present, a mere seven months later. The Jasper today is a lively, smiley boy full of energy.
He greets me each morning with a huge kiss on my ear before rolling over for his pre-breakfast belly rub. He wags his tail coquettishly while nudging his sister’s face in preparation for a 15-minute wrestle fest. With ferocious barks, he alerts us to the dangers of passing cars, bunnies in the back yard, thunder and anything else that catches his attention.
And he races Zoey to the kitchen when I whistle, knowing he’ll be treated to something delicious, like a cube of cheese, a Greenie, a piece of apple or a homemade doggie peanut butter cookie (turns out, he does like peanut butter, after all).
Despite a whole lot of trauma in his younger years, Jasper is a very happy boy. I can only imagine that things seemed pretty bleak for our boy at certain points, and he might have withdrawn as a means of self-protection.
He’s a perfect example of how dogs are amazingly adaptable and resilient. We humans could take a lesson.
It seems pretty likely that many of us (especially those of us in Western countries) are in for some major upheaval of our own in the near future. Some might argue, in fact, that it’s already begun.
I mean, there’s certainly enough to be worried about: most countries are experiencing the highest level of excess deaths among adults and even teens since pre-pandemic (and higher than during the actual pandemic in 2020); possible major wars; dangers of climate change; destructive protests in city streets; thefts of all kinds (car theft in Toronto reached “historic highs” in 2023, for instance, or up a whopping 300% since 2015); “Disease X”; rampant, increasing censorship; the WHO treaty that usurps countries’ sovereignty and takes over all control of all health decisions; illegal migrants flooding the country; aliens (or at least “non-humans”) landing on our planet . . . . And let’s not even get started on never-ending spikes in grocery costs, heating bills and inflation, 23% increase in the carbon tax in Canada on April 1st, . and potential elections coming to the US and Canada in the next couple of years.
Did I miss anything?
No wonder people are more anxious than ever before.
I know, it would be so easy to withdraw, sit emotionless in a corner and avoid contact with the outside world. No one would blame you if you became unresponsive to other dogs people, stopped interacting with squirrels your friends, didn’t feel excited about treats food or spent your time brooding about how awful life was.
I’m tempted, believe me. And some days, I do succumb. . . for a while.
But then, I think about Jasper. He’s thriving now. He’s bounced back from whatever hellish life he had before. He made a full recovery.
And, as much as dogs are incredibly adaptable, humans are even more adaptable.
Back in my 20s, I experienced terrifying, debilitating panic attacks. Almost daily (actually, more like nightly–they occurred only when I attempted to go to sleep at night), I’d suffer intense chest pains, heart palpitations, body sweats and shakiness, and would end up panting from anxiety.
At the time, living away from home and alienated from my family (my dad disowned me because he didn’t like my boyfriend), I was incredibly lonely and frightened.
Not knowing what else to do, I’d haul myself to the nearest hospital emergency room, where, I reasoned, I could find out the truth about what was going on in my traitorous body. Plus, if I truly was having a heart attack, at least I’d be in the best place possible for it to happen (always so practical, this gal).
Eventually, I found myself visiting the emergency room five or six times per week.
On one visit, as I sat alone, trembling under the halfsize “gown” on the exam table’s waxy paper sheet, the door opened and the resident sauntered in. He glanced my way, then grimaced with recognition (after all, I was probably the most frequent visitor to the place in those days).
“What’s the problem?” he asked in a monotone, keeping his eyes on his chart.
“I think I’m having a heart attack,” I said, hoping I didn’t die before he examined me.
He scribbled something on the chart, then removed his stethoscope from around his neck and placed it on my chest.
“Take a deep breath.”
After a few seconds, he returned the stethoscope to his neck and wrote a few more notes in the chart.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Your heart rate is high.”
“But is it a problem? Does it mean something’s wrong? Am I going to be okay?” My voice now resembled the repetitive squeaks from one of my dog’s toys.
The man squinted slightly, glaring straight into my face. In his eyes, I saw a boiling cauldron of anger, incredulity, pity and contempt.
“Ricki, 24 year-olds don’t have heart attacks,” he spat out. “Go home and call your doctor tomorrow. Stop taking up valuable space in the emergency room.”
Looking back on that encounter today, three things stand out for me.
First, now that it’s 2024, it is no longer considered ultra-rare for otherwise healthy 24 year-olds to have heart attacks (or, at least, to die suddenly from. . . something or other).
In addition, we’ve seen increases in myocarditis, strokes, and other cardiovascular problems, especially among young men. And while you’d think any increase would be incredibly worrisome, there don’t seem to be any major studies underway to find out why it’s happening.
Back then, the doctor had no worries about sending me home, because he knew without a doubt that I’d be okay. Because healthy 24 year-olds didn’t have heart attacks in 1983.
Secondly, back then, the term “panic disorder” didn’t actually exist yet (most anxiety disorders weren’t even named until the 1980 edition of the DSM). So I really can’t blame the myriad residents and interns who saw me on a regular basis in the Windsor emergency room and had no idea what was wrong with me. They just assumed I was a standard nut job.
Now for the third–and most important–observation: Like Jasper, I got over it.
I no longer suffer from panic attacks. In fact, about 99% of both my anxiety and my low-grade depression completely disappeared during the year I studied holistic nutrition.
At that time, I changed my diet dramatically, cutting out all refined sugar, all processed foods and all artificial flavorings and colorings. I ate real, whole, organic (as much as possible) foods. I was surrounded by like-minded people who were also interested in optimizing their health.
And what happened? One day, it suddenly struck me that I was no longer anxious all the time. My depression had lifted. It was only later in my studies that I learned sugar and highly processed foods often correlate with both depression and anxiety (plus a bunch of nasty physical symptoms as well).
Over the years, I left behind my anger and resentment at those doctors who did nothing for me except, perhaps, introduce the suggestion that my problems were “all in my head” because, as they saw it, nothing was really wrong with me. They just didn’t know what it was.
Despite the trauma of those years, I went on to carve out a new life for myself in a new city, found new friends, started a new career, met a spouse and built a (generally) happy life.
And then, in 2023, the HH and I took in Jasper, and helped him to recover, too.
It’s astonishing, really, how resilient we humans can be. I’m forever fascinated and inspired by stories of people who’ve overcome seemingly insurmountable odds to thrive nonetheless.
If you’ve never read the backstory of self-help guru Tony Robbins, for instance, go do it now. You’ll come away feeling like your own woes are but drops of blue ink in an ocean of potential problems.
Another great example is Jeannette Walls’ The Glass Castle, one of my favorite memoirs ever. Given how she grew up, Walls’ adult life and career as renowned columnist for MSNBC is nothing short of a miracle.
Yet most people are miraculous in their own ways. Think about the people you’ve known in your life, or those you’ve met long enough to hear about their personal history. How many have overcome enormous challenges? How may have survived despite impossible odds? How many are thriving despite events or people in their past who could have brought them down?
Yes, we are indeed living in interesting times. And yes, it can feel easy to despair when we really look at the state of the world.
But remember this: people are amazing. People are strong. And resilient. And determined to make their lives better, no matter the external circumstances.
Ultimately, those people will triumph. Again.
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Optimism isnt just for eyeglasses. Great peice. I needed that.