A Good Bad Dog

I was phobic of dogs for more than 20 years.

I would cross the street when I saw a dog coming. I would have silent, frozen panic attacks if a dog approached me. I would hide in cars until friends put their dogs away, and the thought of a beach, a park or a path would be tainted with the fear of encountering someone walking a dog. I once bodily threw a coworker towards a car with a dog sticking out of the window, using her as a human shield when he startled me.

Here’s the thing about a dog phobia - people think you are being ridiculous. “He doesn’t bite.” “If you just relax, she will relax.” “Oh, don’t worry. He’s friendly.” Intellectually, I believed they were right, but once bitten and all of that.

I was two when a dog bit me in the face. I was seven when my mom was bitten by a German Shepherd trying to get us in the car. I was nine when two Dobermen Pinchers - security guard dogs on a Caracas compound - got loose from their yard and chased us up the block. Never an excuse, but I had a few reasons to be uneasy around people’s beloved pets.

Then I met Ben. Ben scared the hell out of me. Ben had a strange posture that I didn’t understand. He was aggressive and challenging, and his family - incredible dog people - were told he could not be trained. The exact phrase as I heard it was “a throw-away dog.” Ben was lucky to have been adopted by such amazing people. He understood them. They understood him. And Ben - a rescue dog - changed my life.

When I first moved to the island, I lived with Ben and a man and his family. Ben was standoffish and that suited me just fine. I would wait till he cleared the hallway before leaving my room, and I would hide in the car when we took Ben to dog parks. I thought, like Ben, I would never be trained. “A throw-away person.”

But then something shifted - not in me, but in Ben. He started protecting me. I think he knew I was scared and decided that I couldn’t possibly be scared of him, so I must be scared of something else. He would sit at my feet, then huff and growl if anyone got too close to me. He would bring me toys and lay them at my feet then step back and wait for me to be brave. He would walk alongside me, let me pet him, and lay his head on my knee. He had the biggest, brownest eyes I have ever seen and while I learned to love him, I learned to let some of that old fear go.

Ben was not an easy dog. I know how hard his family worked with him, and I think he turned all that time, attention and care on me - making me the project his family was making him.

Soon, I could stand by the car at the dog park. Then by the fence. The first day I made it inside with the rest of the dogs and humans, I had a panic attack. I was frozen in place until Ben came and stood beside me until it finally passed.

It took time, and the love of a good dog, his steady patience with me, and his willingness to be near even when I was panicked, even when I was a mess, but I got there. I stood in the park with the rest of the normal dog people. I walked Ben on a leash without crying. I could greet a dog on a walk and even forgot to cross the street when they came walking my way.

Years later, in a new house, in a new town, with a new family, the gifts Ben gave me have never gone away. I have made friends with my neighbours’ dogs and take them for walks when I can. Mine is the house they come to when they run away - maybe because I am better, or maybe because I always have dog treats. I may never be a dog person, but I was set free by a rescue dog with big brown eyes, a “throw-away dog,” that took this “throw-away person” and made her whole.

With Love,

Regina Grimm

I am the author of dark and sexy retellings of classic fairytales. Grab your free ebook copy of my debut novel Snow White and the Wicked Queen now.

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