The Next Chapter, Part 5
Whoops. I did not know better, and I did the best with what I knew. As I was reading this book, I learned A LOT about Robbie, and several mysteries that had niggled at me for years came to light. Now, I can share with you.
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One aspect of training my second dog that I was definitely not prepared for was the reality of past, present, and future battling it out in my mind every time I pick up the leash. It's Day 20 with Austin, my service dog candidate. My friends and family keep checking in to ask how it's going. Honestly? It's like one of those rollercoasters that whips you around the track so fast you can barely see straight and right when you expect your body to continue in one direction, it gets hurtled in a random off shoot direction, and back again. It is wonderful, challenging, strenuous, painful, humorous, unrelenting, defeating, and exhausting. Owner-training a service dog when you're in pain and every mistake the dog makes causes a literal, painful consequence for you is immensely hard. And once you sign up, you're in it, every day. You wake up, do your best, make some wins, get beat up by an 80lb ball of fluff, go to bed, and do it all again. (if you watch Supernatural, my life is basically Tuesday right now) I know this. I did it. The proof of my capability is chilling nearby, silently judging the puppy oaf creature lying where he once did. I really thought training the second would be easier. In some ways, it is so far. In one particularly pesky way, though, it's complicatedly harder. SpinningHave you ever read a book where the author made the daunting choice to flit back and forth amongst past, present, and future character timelines, and throughout it, found yourself annoyed when they didn't make a point to tell you which was which? That's how I feel right now. Tired, annoyed, and occasionally confused. Each day I wake up, make coffee, get dressed, feed the rabbits, take the dogs out, and that's where the duality begins and refuses to end until it's the end of the day, my husband asks what I did and it's nothing but a blur of repetition and all I can say is, "Dogs. Things with dogs." Walks, training, playtime, triumphs, missteps, mini-CRPS traumas playing on repeat with dogs too alike and too unalike. Everything in between, and everything in double doses. My dumb self had to be drawn towards a dog who looked eerily similar to the first dog. Go me. I was bound to struggle anyway, but the dogs looking almost identical upon quick glance makes this way harder than my mind needs it to be. Each time I work with Robbie, memories swirl around me. Puppy Robbie having boundless energy, challenging us with each new ounce of freedom, and mouthing on us by pure accident of not closing his mouth when he played. The first time he got me up after a fall. All the times he caused a fall. What it felt like to work with him in public and know that no matter what, I was going to be okay that day. The joy of watching him work, and the grief of the day we retired. I can see his whole career in moving pictures flashing past my eyes every time I pick up the leash, every time I teach and pull from my experiences with him, every time Austin does something frustrating and Robbie is the shoulder I lean on for comfort. In my mind, Robbie is 3 or 5 again (our favorite years), and nothing is wrong, or extra challenging. I've just come back from walking him, and as he lowers himself onto the floor, I hear the groan, I see the way he slowly lowers himself instead of the hard hip plop of before, and the youthful black mask of memory fades into a grayed out senior who needs his shoulders iced. Invariably, halfway through, he starts wiggling, rolls himself onto his back, and wants snuggles while being iced. Young, old, green, and seasoned all in one. Each time I pick up the leash on Austin, my mind swirls. There's immediately tension on the line, put there by a bumbling puppy who has too much GO and not enough patience. In an instant, I can see the dog he is now, the dog he'll be in a year, and the dog he'll be when he's finished, working full time by my side faithfully, and Robbie is gone. My mind can't help but get drawn back to, "this is what we did with Robbie..." or "that's not how Robbie was..." My muscle memory has grown accustomed to how my hands and legs can communicate with Robbie in our own language, one of understanding and a sense of watchful concern. They expect Austin to remember what he hasn't learned yet, and I have to remind myself that Robbie isn't beside me, Austin is. I can see where Austin was, where he is now, and where he will be but isn't and won't be for a while yet. I feel like someone wandering through uncharted territory, constantly mistaking familiar landmarks for evidence of knowing where I am and where I'm going, only to turn a corner and see any ounce of familiarity blur into the distance again. I know the work I put into Robbie is why Robbie is who he is now, but even so I want Austin to get on the same page yesterday and get with the way of things. That's not how it works, but it's what I drift towards on the days when Austin takes more than I have to give or when I'm already spent and still asking myself for more. It was easier with Robbie. We could imagine what he would be like one day, but we didn't know. We lived in the present, occasionally looking upon the past to see that we were indeed moving forward. I thought knowing the path ahead of me would make this easier. I was wrong. Knowing is harder.
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My Name is Sally...I have a condition called Complex Regional Pain Syndrome. This blog is about my journey training Robbie, a dog who helped me regain independence, confidence, and achieve the impossible in the face of my disability. It continues on with the training of Austin, Robbie's successor. Check Out... - "More than a Dog" was published on a site called The Mighty Categories
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