When I put Joey in the car to go home from the Amanda Foundation, he trembled with fear. Every other dog I’d known was ecstatic to ride in the car.
Unsure of his bathroom habits, I put him in the kitchen behind a gate for the first three nights. Joey stoically curled up on blankets and didn’t utter a sound. For four days, he didn’t bark. He was depressed. His demeanor whispered, “I’ll do anything you want, just don’t kill me.”
I started to think I’d made a serious mistake. Was it possible to build a relationship with a dog who was so shut down? I didn’t know what to do, so I took him for a walk. We did this several times a day, whenever I felt helpless about how to bond.
And then, I realized that Joey was well-trained dog, an old school gentleman. I took the gate away from the kitchen door and put it up. The first time I picked him up and put him on my bed, he looked at me like I had taken leave of my senses. He slept at the furthest corner from me as if he feared that I’d change my mind and kick him off the bed.
In the afternoon, I lay down with my head at the end of the bed opposite from where he lay curled up. Stretching out my hand, I stroked his fur. My fingers rested lightly against his body. I felt his warmth, sighed and fell asleep.
