ch. 2, v.1-15 (fears)

Lo, tho' I walk through the hall of the house of alone-ness
I shall not panic.
I shall neither raid the storehouses of kibble nor
pull down the vaults of my companion's sustenance.
Tho' I may scatter the treasures and linens of my companion
I shall chew the recesses of her raiment only a little bit.

I find my comfort in the treasures and linens of my companion
and eat just this one pocket and a few tissues.
My companion returns, calling to me with words of praise
"Good dog" and rewards me for the many adornments unchewed
and storehouses unmolested.

Yay, tho' the fear of abandonment rises about me
like unto concrete walls and chainlink fences,
tho' it gape before me an abyss as dark as an empty stomach,
I shall know that I am in the denning place of my pack and fear not.

Exegesis and Commentary
Although these verses articulate, for the first time here, the tremendous separation anxiety that has attended Frida all through these nine years, they actually testify to her growing ability to face down that fear. Even just a few years ago, as she suggests here, being alone in the house with access to all its rooms would have led to considerable destruction: food bins overturned, evidence of panic overeating (a hugely bloated stomach and food regurgitated), human food spread all about (including, more than once, a bottle of olive oil carried into the living room and allowed to pour out all over the floor), private parts of my clothing consumed, and many different kinds of objects chewed.



That history has led to a variety of stratagems for giving Frida less space to worry about in my absence: she was initially crate trained and now is kept in the living room when alone. She also gets her frozen kong, filled with carrots, cream cheese, and peanut butter, whenever I leave, a ritual that occupies her attention and seems to comfort her.

So the miraculous thing, a few weeks ago, was that I forgot to secure the living room door, and Frida had access to the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom, several trash cans and several laundry baskets, and she ate only one pocket out of one pair of shorts. Even tho' she carried other items of clothing into the living room, she didn't actually chew them. Is it a miracle if the saint changes her own behavior?



(Note the dog food bins, trash cans, completely untouched. This is beyond my ability to fathom. I can comprehend it only through an effort of faith.)

The realistic question, tho', is what is it that actually changed in Frida's life? I can identify a few key things (poodle company, getting older, etc.), but I think the most important thing is that she has been weaned off of the potassium bromide, an anti-seizure medication she's been on for over eight years. I had never been fond of it--it barely controlled her seizures and had nasty side effects--but the vets eight years ago seemed to love it (no danger of liver damage, which is the risk with the barbituate). So b/c apparently her body was no longer absorbing it well, and it was making her sick, a good neurologist at Angell suggested taking her off of it (veeeerrrry gradually), and not only did it solve the problems we had begun to notice (wobbly legs, accidents in the house, etc.), but it has generally made her more confident: more playful with other dogs again, less destructive when left alone in the house, less barky, so on. It's been great. I wish it had happened years ago. (Don't worry--she still has many of the neurotic, woebegone, and generally long-suffering behaviors that make her our saint.)


(No, we don't make Frida lie in this seemingly sterile and uncomfortable spot. She frequently chooses to lie here; she would actually get in the tub if she could.)