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My heart breaks each time Penny flinches.
A raised arm to throw a ball, a leg lifted to tie a shoe, a reach over her head to give her a little pat.
She flinches or cowers. Drops low to the ground and skitters away.
It’s gotten better.
“Better,” anyway, in the sense that she cowers less and flinches less, and I know she’s only been with us a short while–not even three months–so we celebrate every improvement, every bit of trust.
And yet.
When I hear my 6-year-old reassuring her, “Penny, don’t be scared. We’ll never hurt you.” Oh, how my heart shatters.
Not only for Penny and the life that led her to expect injury, but for the innocence Violet has lost as she grapples with the idea of people abusing animals. Astrid, too, though at 4, she can’t yet understand the nuances. She just knows Penny needs a little extra love when she gets scared. Or a cookie. Astrid is a pro at dashing to the cookie jar and doling out treats.
My job, as their mom, is to help them wade through these challenging thoughts and feelings. I can’t fix it for them. I can’t mother away animal abuse or Penny’s flinches, but I can help them navigate how they feel about it all.
My job, as the adult human, is to help Penny not only be safe, which she is, but feel safe, which she doesn’t. Not all the time, anyway. She is making huge strides, though. There is an enormous gulf separating her being safe from feeling safe right now, but we’re slowly building a bridge across.
(Incidentally, would anyone be interested in a post about the differences between being safe and feeling safe regarding our pups?)
And yet.
I feel angry.
I feel sad.
I feel frustrated.
A couple days ago, we enjoyed a beautiful fake-spring day. Penny found a soft spot to lie down in the yard and watch the girls play. A long while later, after the girls had gone in, I went outside to collect Penny for dinner.
I called her with an arm wave, and she ducked and ran.
I’m not sure why that particular instance did it, but it brought tears to my eyes. I stood in the doorway watching her run away from me while I cried.
And, of course, I know. I know that we’ve made huge, massive strides. Most of the time, she comes in the house all on her own now, when at first, that was a major challenge.
She eats her dinner in the hallway heading toward the kitchen instead of in the bedroom.
She comes up and down the stairs all on her own whenever she wants, whereas she used to have to be carried up and down stairs. (My back is grateful for this progress!)
Penny has made amazing progress.
We have so much hope for her and pride in all she’s accomplished.
Overall, it’s all so positive and such a testament to our dogs’ incredible natures.
And yet.
As I keep reminding the girls (and myself): It’s okay to not be okay.
It’s okay to be sad about her past and hopeful for her future. We can hold multiple emotions at one time.
It’s okay to be furious about the state of animal welfare in this country and how animal abusers can inflict such devastation and harm, while also focusing on all the ways we can help this one dog overcome what she’s been through. We can hold multiple ideas at one time.
It’s okay to not be okay for a little while, and then it’s okay to focus on a little flicker of light–no matter how small–to find ways to move forward.
For Penny, next up we’re working on Karen Overall’s Relaxation Protocol. (If you’re curious about this, I can do a post on it, as well.)
We’re also expanding her world a little bit each day: new parks, new toys and games, another group training class that started last night.
Piece by piece her world grows, and with it, so does she.
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