Ziggy, my fourth pup, belonged to friends of mine who had adopted him from the Humane Society. The Australian Sheppard-Border Collie mix was as sweet as he was beautiful. It quickly became apparent, however, that he was also a scared dog with an ugly past. Raised voices, abrupt movement, men in general and unexpected occurrences filled him with fear, more often than not prompting him to bite the person he perceived as a threat.
When my friends decided they couldn’t handle him, my handyman who had fallen in love with Ziggy while I was dog-sitting offered to take him. Unfortunately, he neglected to ask his wife, which proved to be an insurmountable problem.
My handyman handed Ziggy off to a rancher with working Border Collies, perhaps reasoning that a job involving biting could be just the thing. Ziggy took one look at the cows he was supposed to herd and ran the other way. Two weeks later, the rancher returned Ziggy to my handyman. Not long after, I got a late afternoon call.
“My wife’s won. We’re talking Ziggy back to the Humane Society,” my handyman announced. “Because he’s got a biting record, they’ll euthanize him in the morning.”
I hung up and started to cry. “You have to be okay with this,” I told myself. “You just can’t have four dogs.”
After two hours of nonstop tears, I called back. “I’m so not okay with this,” I announced. “I’ll be at your place to collect Ziggy in 20 minutes.”
My house wasn’t new to Ziggy. Neither was my pack. So in some ways the transition was easy. Still, I had to contend with a fear biter who got scared a lot. Slowly, however, that dynamic began to shift. The fact that I work from home and pay way too much attention to my pups probably helped. (Most of my friends say they want to come back as one of my dogs.) A healthy pack also helped. How can you not feel like the odd dog out when you’ve got your tail between your legs while everyone else is bouncing up and down and wagging when the doorbell rings?
“He’s a different dog,” all my friends, including Ziggy’s former owners, announced within months of his arrival. The difference? Ziggy felt safe.
Ziggy still cringes at a raised voice. When I reprimand one of the other dogs, I have to reassure him that he isn’t in trouble. When I reprimand him, I have to reassure him that I still love him even if he’s been bad. But Ziggy is healing.
Over the years as Ziggy has felt safer and safer, he’s continued to blossom. Therein lies the secret to creativity. If we writers would quit judging ourselves so harshly and allowing others to pass judgment on our work before it’s ready to be seen, we would blossom too. We would feel safe enough to explore our innermost thoughts and/or feelings. And we would feel safe enough to play with how to best express those.
When it gets right down to it, you have to feel safe to open yourself up. You have to feel safe to create. And you have to feel safe to be a good dog. Ziggy taught me that.
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