Bear growls at me as he licks my face. He doesn’t just growl. He cries, groans, and bears his teeth all at the same time. But I insist that he kiss me and squeal at him, “kisses, Bear. Kisses.”
Bear is a 50-pound mutt with short-hair, a beautiful golden-red coat and dark caramel-colored eyes. He’s only about a foot and a half tall at the shoulder, but he’s a husky dog, muscular and broad across the chest. Except for his floppy ears and round nose, he looks a lot like a Shiba Inu, a Japanese mountain dog that was bred for hunting and is known to be independent, loyal to its owner while reserved and sometimes aggressive with strangers and other dogs.
My husband Shawn and I adopted Bear and his brother Dozer from the Denver Dumb Friends League in 2004. They were just puppies then—only two months old and about nine pounds each. The first time we met Bear, Shawn and I both quickly realized he was a belligerent little bully. He attacked our hands, bit our fingers, and gnawed on our clothes. He chewed on Dozer’s ankles and wrestled him to the ground until Dozer cried. I thought he enjoyed beating up on all of us, and I immediately fell in love with him. But my feelings changed soon after adopting him. When I put his food bowl on the kitchen floor, he bit my hands. Every time I gave him a chewy, he snapped it up in his little jaws, then growled at me. He constantly hurt Dozer, and he routinely bit Shawn and me. Quickly I realized he was no ordinary dog: he suffered food aggression, possession aggression, fear aggression, and he didn’t care much for people or other dogs. He wasn’t spirited like I first believed. He was just mean.
For the next two years, I lived in fear. Bear grew into a meaty, strong adult dog with hard eyes; he always looked unhappy, tense, ready to attack. At the dog park, he hunted other dogs like prey, and on a leash he often pulled me right off my feet. In our yard, he chased passers-by up and down the fence, barking and screaming in an uncontrollable rage. In the house, he fought with Dozer over chewies, toys or for space. If we had guests, he attacked their feet or tried to bite their hands and eventually had to be secluded in another room. Shawn and I worried he’d eventually seriously injure another dog or person, and we constantly fought about how to train him. By the Christmas of 2006, I had enough and threatened Shawn: it’s the dog or me. We tried twice to find Bear another home, but only two people took enough interest to meet him, and they both quickly realized he was an anxious, troubled dog, not the lovable, affectionate pet everyone dreams about bringing home.
I resented Bear for not being a good dog. Even worse, I abused him. I never imagined I’d hit an animal, but I did. Every time Bear growled at me, tried to bite me, or became aggressive with other dogs, I slapped him. More than once I choked him with his collar, then tossed him outside like a sack of garbage. I constantly screamed at him and wished him dead. And when he came to beg my forgiveness, I instead hit him and banished him to his bed. On the afternoon that Bear bit my face, I was so furious I grabbed him by the back legs, dragged him out the front door, and kicked him in the gut like I was trying to punt a soccer ball. That was the first time I ever heard him cry. It was also the last time he bit me.
Everything changed that day. For the first time, I admitted to myself I was abusive and completely out of control. And rather than take responsibility for my behavior I instead demanded pity. Poor me, I just wanted a nice, happy dog who likes everybody and look what I got. At the same time, I insisted that I loved Bear because he was so much like me––demanding, relentless, sensitive––a spoiled brat who sometimes flies into fits of rage. But I was lucky. My husband and close friends were always honest, fair, and patient with me about my faults. In contrasting their behavior with me to my behavior with Bear, I realized I always had everyone’s love and support. No one tried to change me, only to help me become the best person I could. But Bear, I abused and abandoned him.
Today, Bear is a happy mutt who’s almost 12 years old. He’s still no angel, and I’m no saint. For several more years I struggled, not just to exercise patience with Bear but also to face up to how much I hated myself. I was cruel to my dog and I didn’t want that in my history, but over time I took responsibility for my actions and grew into a patient, compassionate individual. And with the help of a wonderful behaviorist, Shawn and I both learned how best to care for Bear. He still doesn’t like people much, he’s not fond of having strangers in his home, and he’s definitely not a fan of the mailman. But I don’t let that bother me anymore. When I learned to understand him as a dog, I learned to catch the important signals—when he feels anxious, nervous or uncomfortable—and I protect him. We’ve worked hard for the balance we enjoy in our lives. When he’s happy, he lets me hug him like a child hugs a stuffed animal. When he’s in a bad mood, he growls and cries but never bites. He may not like to snuggle like I wish he did, but he tolerates me when I want to torture him with kisses. And even though he just wants to be with his humans, he’s happiest when we leave him alone. He may not be the dog anyone dreams about bringing home, and he was never the dog I wanted, but he’s the dog I always needed.
