Samuel Jenkins-Finally Home

            Sam gets scared. A lot. The tongs for the barbecue grill, a power drill, food sizzling in a pan, the freezer door, the basement, something rattling in the back of the car, sudden noises (loud or not so loud), the smoke from a neighbor’s fire, gunfire in the distance, thunder—oh! the thunder.

            Sam’s responses to these things range from mild apprehension—which, to be honest, is kind of adorable: a slight lowering of the head, a few cautious steps backwards as if in slow-motion, nervous glances in the direction of the frightening object—to total freak-outs. As you can imagine, the freak-outs are quite a bit less adorable; in fact, they’re rather heartbreaking. The sound of gunfire sends him sprinting to the back door to get inside the house; he runs and hides under the deck at the smell or sight of smoke; and thunder causes involuntary shaking, which can last for hours.

         Of course, we knew that adopting a rescue dog would come with certain challenges and we understood that, from the dog’s point of view, it can’t be easy to adjust—for a third or fourth or fifth time—to new people, new surroundings, and a new routine. Surely it’s even more difficult for a dog that wasn’t properly socialized as a pup, that experienced some degree of neglect, or that’s been abused. In Sam’s case, the simplest of things can reveal his anxiety, sending my wife and me into a flutter of speculation about the secrets of his traumatic past. Why does he cower at the sight of me with tongs in my hand, but not when my wife is holding them? Was he mistreated by a man? Was he hit with some object? Why does he skitter away, shivering, upon hearing the click of the coffee pot lid? Does it sound to him like the pop of a gun? Why does he shrink from the freezer door? Is it the sound? Or is it fear of what I might be pulling out of that strange compartment? And what’s so scary about the basement anyway? The creaking steps?

          The strange sounds of the mechanicals humming away belo The good news is that after nine months in his new home, many of these fears are gone. A curious sniff of whatever I’m holding and Sam’s okay; he often joins me in the kitchen while I make coffee; and the freezer doesn’t much bother him anymore. And strangely, larger fears sometimes help him overcome smaller ones. For months we tried to coax him into the basement—with verbal encouragement, hot dogs, and at one point, a toy on every step—all to no avail. Then, a few weeks ago thunderstorms arrived and Sam, to our astonishment, rushed down to the basement on his own to find a place to hide. It’s now his preferred safety spot. He’ll even wander down occasionally on his own or with me just to check things out.

            We’ve come to realize that there’s no predicting what will or will not frighten him. He follows the vacuum cleaner around like it’s an old friend. He’s so interested in the riding lawn mower and the neighbor’s tractor that you’ve got to shoo him away just for safety’s sake. On the other hand, when we recently decided to embark upon some agility/frisbee-trick training (did I mention that Sam’s an incredible athlete?), we brought home a hula-hoop and fashioned a low hurdle out of some flimsy PVC pipe. It took days of smearing peanut butter on them just to get him to come within three feet of either. Inscrutable dog!

            But he’s our inscrutable dog and while we’re mustering up all the patience and love we can to help him gain confidence and feel safe experiencing new things—trying hard not to reinforce his fears nor to push him too hard to overcome them—we wouldn’t have him any other way. For every anxious bout or episode of fearfulness, there are a dozen moments of laughter, affection, or fun—a walk, a game of tug, an acrobatic frisbee catch. The truth is, having patience, accepting Sam’s idiosyncrasies and neuroses, and loving him anyway, whether despite or because of them, isn’t all that different from the ways we accommodate and adjust to living with any other family member. We all have our quirks and anxieties. In fact, I suspect Sam isn’t the only RPSM parolee who has “issues.” I wish I had some expert advice for those dealing with dogs similar to Sam. Unfortunately, I’m not sure if we always handle Sam’s issues expertly, although we continue to read, learn, train, and talk with our vet. But there is one thing I’m sure of, one thing that I can say, with tremendous gratitude to all the people who made it possible for Sam to come into our home: the challenges of a rescued pet, frustrating and gut-wrenching though they may be at times, pale in comparison to the rewards of having Sam as part of our lives. He’s certainly lucky that RPSM gave him a second chance at life. But we’re far luckier.

                                    -- Jeff Insko