It’s awful when a dog cries from the pain of a loss not understood.
Last week I left my labradoodle yearling, Bryn, at a new doggie daycare center to enjoy a few hours of indoor play with other dogs, some of whom she knew from dog park visits. The weather outside was frightful; high wind and drenching rain had created mud everywhere. Except for quick backyard potty visits she would have been confined to the house, as we don’t walk out in bad weather.
I thought she’d grasped the concept of daycare because she’d been enrolled at one other center in Bay City, Michigan, when I’d travel back to our little farmhouse home for a few days. She’d mope very briefly, but then throw herself into games. Drop-offs weren’t new.
But, for some reason, this one was different, as I found out later…
From a big, low window in the reception area she’d watched me drive away, horrified. What had she done? Why had I left her? My normally self-assured Bryn hung her head and cried. It wrenched the staffer’s heart. She couldn’t be enticed from the window. Heartbroken, head in paws, she mourned, ignoring the happy barking and scampering-around-noises just beyond the front reception area. She was utterly miserable.
It was as if I had died…
She wouldn’t be comforted, so they brought in a dog her size who immediately bounced over to nibble her ear. Bryn ignored the newcomer, but finally allowed the staff member to lead her and her companion into the play area, where she was instantly surrounded by other dogs eager to include her in their games.
A frisky pup dangled a tug-of-war rope in front of her. She looked up dully, then instinctively took it. According to a science program I just saw, it seems that mammalian brains are designed to focus on one thing at a time. She had to give up the realization that I was gone forever to concentrate on keeping the rope from being snatched away-- and suddenly it was all right. She stopped moaning and began, slowly, to play.
Dogs and staff kept her busy, introducing new toys, cheering her on, and by the time I returned, perhaps 5 hours later, she was in full throttle. (Interestingly, distraction can be a very useful tool to manage human grief, too.)
I will never forget the look on her face when she saw me. Arriving in the reception area she stared, thunderstruck. Then her bewhiskered face was transformed by joy. She pointed her muzzle at the ceiling and cried, then rushed over to lick my pants, my face, my hands, and thrust her nose between my knees so I could scratch her ears, which was difficult, as Bryn was a 50-pound body in motion. (Dogs show unreserved happiness so very well; that’s one reason we love ‘em.) There was no need to snap on her leash; her head was glued to my leg as we walked to the car. She never stopped gazing up at me. It was an intense experience.
I settled her in her back seat nest, answered a phone call, and then concentrated on driving.
Two days later I brought her back for another romp, as I needed to pack for our trip downstate.
This time, her greeting was warm and much more relaxed. I commented, so the staff relayed what had happened two days earlier. “Initially, dogs can react with intense sadness to being ‘dumped’ in an alien place,” commented one minder, “but they’ll quickly revert to their normal optimism. Today Bryn was immediately eager to join the other dogs. She hasn’t stopped playing.”
I was thoughtful during the three-hour drive to Saginaw.
There is no way to explain to her why I do things like this. All I can do is continue to expose her to new experiences, such as drop-offs for grooming, staying with friends and other family when Joe and I fly somewhere, occasional daycare, etc. to build her confidence.
Bryn is learning to trust in one simple truth:
Family Always Comes Back.
Last week I left my labradoodle yearling, Bryn, at a new doggie daycare center to enjoy a few hours of indoor play with other dogs, some of whom she knew from dog park visits. The weather outside was frightful; high wind and drenching rain had created mud everywhere. Except for quick backyard potty visits she would have been confined to the house, as we don’t walk out in bad weather.
I thought she’d grasped the concept of daycare because she’d been enrolled at one other center in Bay City, Michigan, when I’d travel back to our little farmhouse home for a few days. She’d mope very briefly, but then throw herself into games. Drop-offs weren’t new.
But, for some reason, this one was different, as I found out later…
From a big, low window in the reception area she’d watched me drive away, horrified. What had she done? Why had I left her? My normally self-assured Bryn hung her head and cried. It wrenched the staffer’s heart. She couldn’t be enticed from the window. Heartbroken, head in paws, she mourned, ignoring the happy barking and scampering-around-noises just beyond the front reception area. She was utterly miserable.
It was as if I had died…
She wouldn’t be comforted, so they brought in a dog her size who immediately bounced over to nibble her ear. Bryn ignored the newcomer, but finally allowed the staff member to lead her and her companion into the play area, where she was instantly surrounded by other dogs eager to include her in their games.
A frisky pup dangled a tug-of-war rope in front of her. She looked up dully, then instinctively took it. According to a science program I just saw, it seems that mammalian brains are designed to focus on one thing at a time. She had to give up the realization that I was gone forever to concentrate on keeping the rope from being snatched away-- and suddenly it was all right. She stopped moaning and began, slowly, to play.
Dogs and staff kept her busy, introducing new toys, cheering her on, and by the time I returned, perhaps 5 hours later, she was in full throttle. (Interestingly, distraction can be a very useful tool to manage human grief, too.)
I will never forget the look on her face when she saw me. Arriving in the reception area she stared, thunderstruck. Then her bewhiskered face was transformed by joy. She pointed her muzzle at the ceiling and cried, then rushed over to lick my pants, my face, my hands, and thrust her nose between my knees so I could scratch her ears, which was difficult, as Bryn was a 50-pound body in motion. (Dogs show unreserved happiness so very well; that’s one reason we love ‘em.) There was no need to snap on her leash; her head was glued to my leg as we walked to the car. She never stopped gazing up at me. It was an intense experience.
I settled her in her back seat nest, answered a phone call, and then concentrated on driving.
Two days later I brought her back for another romp, as I needed to pack for our trip downstate.
This time, her greeting was warm and much more relaxed. I commented, so the staff relayed what had happened two days earlier. “Initially, dogs can react with intense sadness to being ‘dumped’ in an alien place,” commented one minder, “but they’ll quickly revert to their normal optimism. Today Bryn was immediately eager to join the other dogs. She hasn’t stopped playing.”
I was thoughtful during the three-hour drive to Saginaw.
There is no way to explain to her why I do things like this. All I can do is continue to expose her to new experiences, such as drop-offs for grooming, staying with friends and other family when Joe and I fly somewhere, occasional daycare, etc. to build her confidence.
Bryn is learning to trust in one simple truth:
Family Always Comes Back.