I think the title says it all. What else do I write? My blog posts thus far have brought up some of the difficulties we have had with our puppy Miska, the primary one being his reactivity. I have also talked a lot about all I have tried to do to increase my knowledge of dog behavior and training and get him support from veterinarians, behaviorists, and dog trainers. I have mentioned all the things I have given up, all the stress we have experienced, and how my health has further complicated the situation this past year.
So, on September 4th, one full year from the day we first met Miska, we contacted the breeder to say that we would be taking him back. We didn’t choose that day on purpose. It just happened that way, and I only noticed that coincidence afterwards. On Sunday night (September 3rd), I came to realize that we were already at the end of our rope. Just that afternoon, I had bought Miska 350 dollars’ worth of hypoallergenic kibble, wet food, and calming collars. I had imagined that he would still be with us for the coming months. So, how was it that just the next day we decided to rehome him?
Well, I suddenly realized that we were already at the end of the rope. We were completely out of mental, physical, and emotional resources. We had nothing left to give. Bochuan started having difficulties getting out of bed again. The stress of this puppy, of not getting any break from parenting, cleaning, cooking, studying, working, and so on was just too much. We had no time at all for our own health and wellbeing, and despite giving everything we could to this puppy, he was still so anxious, so stressed, so reactive. He was barking in the apartment, on the balcony, and outside. I was spending literal hours in the evening (from around 4.30pm-9.30pm, sometimes later) just trying to keep him calm. I used patterns I learned for healing dog trauma. I was taking him on “walking meditations” (i.e., instead of a 45-minute walk around the neighborhood, which was too overstimulating, I spent 45 minutes walking him back and forth about 50 meters). This method, suggested by one of the trainers we began working with recently, is very effective in helping him be calm and outside, two things he rarely ever is. I was also teaching him how to take deep breaths to help him calm down after a stressful situation, like seeing a human walk through a door.
However, all that I was doing took me almost entirely away from Alaya, Bochuan, work, and most anything else. My world had shrunk down to the dog’s needs. For Alaya, I felt like I saw her only in the mornings when I dropped her off at daycare and at night when I read her a book and stayed with her until she fell asleep. If the dog is sick occasionally and I have to spend a few days mostly focused on him, that is one thing. However, this was every day. Alaya, who used to only say that she loves Miska, started to say things like, “Miska is not our dog. He belongs to another family.” I have to tell you. Sometimes kid’s say the creepiest things. Did she get that from her grandparents when they were here? Was she frustrated by all the time she had to spend by herself because the dog was almost always too overstimulated for her to even be in the same room with? He was back to nipping at her, and I was starting to get concerned in a way I hadn’t been since he was a very small puppy, for her safety. Just a few days earlier I said to Bochuan, “If I don’t feel Alaya is safe, then that’s a deal breaker.” All the podcasts I had been listening to about dog reactivity and aggression made it very clear that with dog behavioral problems and young children, it’s definitely best to ere on the side of caution.
But back to Sunday night. Earlier in the day, Bochuan went to lay down and found it hard to get back up again. He could probably hear all the commotion in the living room, the dog barking here and there, me asking Alaya to please stay in her room until I could get the dog to calm down. But he couldn’t get out of bed to help. His body was saying “No,” (a reference to the book I mentioned earlier this year When the Body Says No: The Cost of Hidden Stress by Gabor Maté). Bochuan reminded me that I said if Miska became a danger to Alaya that this would be a deal breaker, but what if having Miska was becoming a danger to his mental health and well-being, was that a deal breaker too?
It was. It is.
That’s when I realized that we had run clean out of rope. I had wanted so badly for this story to end differently, to be able to help this dog regulate and rewire his brain to be successful in our home and community, to not be that person who took a dog back. I wanted it so much, my whole world had narrowed down to that goal. I suddenly realized that it wasn’t just Bochuan’s mental health and well-being or Alaya’s safety that needed to be considered. I was burning the candle at both ends myself, and I realized that my body had been screaming “No!” for months.
But why would I listen to it? The heroes and heroines of the stories in the cultures around me are those who persevered, who never “gave up,” who did the thing that everyone else failed to do or thought impossible. This was done at the cost of relationships, personal health and wellbeing, and many other life responsibilities. These stories were not about boundaries, trusting your gut, and respecting the needs of your body. The take-home message was that if there was a will, there was a way. Both When the Body Says No and Devon Price’s Laziness Does Not Exist have taught me that such ideologies are a recipe for autoimmune diseases, societal inequalities, and suffering in general.
I’ve been reading articles and blogs about dealing with guilt and grief after rehoming a pet. One such article encouraged readers to write a letter to their pet. You can find my letter to Miska at the end of this blog.
On the very same day we decided to rehome Miska, the owner on a home that Bochuan and I are in the process of buying, signed the contract accepting our offer. I never, ever thought Miska would not be moving with us. He was a significant factor in our housing choices, and I am not sure we would have chosen this house if we knew that we would be returning him to the breeder that Saturday. However, it’s a beautiful house, at the end of a block of row homes, with a large backyard that has an apple tree. It’s incredibly bittersweet, but we’re moving into our first house.
The BAM family is moving. Just Bochuan, Alaya, and Maxi.
Dear Miska,
I wanted so much to be your forever home. I thought that the universe had put you into my life because we needed each other. I thought, quite naturally, that I was special. I was the kind of person who breastfed their daughter until she was almost four years old. I was that woman who was going to go to great lengths to ensure that any creature entrusted to her care not only survived but thrived. I was going to—through great sacrifice, hard work, and community support—help you regulate that anxious mind of yours. We were going to be a story of success and perseverance.
You were going to be Alaya’s best friend. You would help her regulate when she was going through difficult times and felt no one else understood her or loved her unconditionally. You would be her younger/older brother, born after her but wiser in your dog years. We would travel together, on trains, in cars, and perhaps planes to see the sights of Finland and Europe. We would be companions, best friends even. You would be our gift from God. Our Miska.
And it has been nothing like that. You could not see into my mind’s eye the vision I had for our relationship, for our family. Even if you could, you were not designed to be able to fulfill it. You see, smell, hear, and experience the world so differently than we do, it’s hard to find any common language. You seem to experience the world even more sensitively than many of your own kind or specific breed.
You are a wonder. And I love you.
I used to, and sometimes still do, think that love meant sacrificing everything for those within your tribe. But you have to drink while you pour, and when I look at what it would mean to prioritize my health, my relationships, and my whole family (not just you), I can see that there’s simply not enough water. There’s not enough time, not enough resources, not enough support.
In my attempts to meet your needs, I have whittled my world down to almost entirely those needs. I listen to dog-related podcasts if I have a chance to clean up the kitchen, not always possible with your anxious barking in the apartment or on the balcony. I watch training videos about trauma and gentle pet parenting while eating lunch. I spend over an hour weekly speaking to a trainer about how we can help and support you every time you step out into a world that’s far too stimulating for you to handle. I try to keep your focus on me, to reassure you that you are safe, but the pull of fear and anxiety is not so easily vanquished with patterns, treats, and emergency recalls.
So, instead of opening up my world as I had hoped. You have closed it. Every time I step outside with you, I hope not to run into a neighbor, and certainly not another dog. It has gotten to be so that I have stopped looking people in the eye even when you’re not around. It’s remarkable we have not yet received a complaint while living in Järvenpää, though I have lived in constant fear with you that we would be kicked out before we could move out.
To be honest, I didn’t mind so much the chewed furniture and scratches on the walls. I didn’t mind so much all the hair over the couch and clothes. I didn’t even mind that my apartment smelled like a dog lived there. You did. I enjoyed brushing your coat and your teeth, rinsing your eyes, and prepping your food. I loved the play time and the times when you humored me with a couple rounds of fetch. It wasn’t all bad, and I hope you feel that way too.
I'm not sure if you'll miss us, but I’ll miss you. I won't miss the stress, but I will miss you. I love you.
I hope you’ll find what you need at your next home. I wish you integration and regulation of your mind and body. Thank you for putting up with us this past year. I know it wasn’t easy living with us. I know we were mostly not what you needed. But I loved you in the best way I knew how. I learned as fast as I could, though it wasn’t fast enough. But having learned so much, I know that loving you means letting you go.
So, thanks for stopping by Miska, and may you find your way home.
With heart,
Maxi
**I updated the background photo of my phone because the previous one made me too sad. I've included a few pictures of our new home. We should move mid-October.
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