Living with a shy dog has made me less social
Or... has it? And how much do I care?
Sometimes I feel lonely and small and wrong when people talk about their dogs improving their anxiety. My dog makes me more anxious. (Or maybe that’s what I do to her.)
I would be a horrible criminal. Sean and I don’t break rules; we don’t own weapons; before crossing the Canada-United States border we clear our converted van of fresh fruit and raw meat and other contraband. The agents have always been polite if not outwardly friendly. We are obviously campers, obviously not a threat, obviously have no reason to worry.
Yet each time we brake at the checkpoint my heart meets my tongue.
I don’t think I’d be as concerned if it weren’t for Scout. Our heeler isn’t “dangerous”—she’s a pushover—but she’s unnerved when strangers enter her home. (I’m also picky about my personal space, though it’s easier for me to intellectualize an experience. I can’t explain to my dog where we’re going and why and what it might mean for her comfort.)
Because we’ve been diligent to ensure Scout feels safe in Hermes, I obsess over the border’s inherent unpredictability. I preemptively attach a “do not pet” sign to her leash, drape it over her crate for easy access, stuff treats in my pockets, practice my script if they ask to search our vehicle: My dog is nervous, can I take her outside first? Part of me acknowledges this as smart planning—why not make the experience as smooth as possible—but another resents it.
It’s the same with acting “friendly” out in public. If I’m overly kind, people might take that as an invitation to get into my dog’s bubble. Scout is happy to chill while I chat but does not want strangers to reach for her. (Why oh why, pet lovers on the street, do so many of you go for the full-face grab?) We’ve had too many experiences where even pleasant people can’t seem to follow directions or imagine how their actions come across to a sensitive cattle dog.
I think of Scout when I see fellow van lifers making friend after friend after friend on social media. A common story: My own stomach clenches at the appearance of another rig approaching our dispersed campsite. Two dogs hang out the window. The RV parks in our pull off, the driver opens the doors, and the pups run free—which means directly at us. My pulse spikes, but thankfully we’re already inside. I close the sliding door, Scout stays calm in her crate, and we pack our things before heading to a different spot down the road.
If I didn’t have a nervous heeler, would I try to connect with these newcomers? What are they thinking as we drive away: that they only wanted to hang out, they imagined we’d all sit around a fire, we’re rude for fleeing? Or would their sudden intrusion raise my hackles regardless of Scout’s sociability?
Another repeated tale: In a WalMart parking lot a man asks if he can tour our van. Sorry, I reply, my dog is shy. These times I’m confident I wouldn’t let him even without Scout—I’ve been raised cautious as a woman must be—but my first thought is not my own safety. It’s my dog’s comfort.
I’ve identified with introversion since the Myers-Briggs personality test entered my classroom in sixth grade. While I enjoyed pretending from time to time (particularly during a failed period of junior-high reinvention) no one has ever assumed me gregarious.
Introvert does not mean hermit, of course. But I’ve never been more drawn to get-off-my-lawn curmudgeonliness than in my time with Scout. In fact I’ve said it outright: Get your dogs out of my yard, mine doesn’t want to say hi, she’s been attacked before, this is private property. It can be lonely to hear other owners talk about the neighbors they meet thanks to their companion—they feel beloved at local parks and pet stores and street corners—while I am here thinking my introverted dog has made me more reclusive. Net, Scout has expanded my life. But concern for her prevents me from leaping into certain moments.
My own social awkwardness is magnified in my heeler. She wants to affiliate with people but doesn’t quite know how. She imagines slights where none exist. She holds grudges—the wary kind, no fiery righteousness—as long as a crow. And as her person, her protector, I move through the world not only aware of my own anxiety but awash in hers, too.
If I smile a little too long at the guy by the bar, will he think I’m flirting? If we pass too close to that family on the sidewalk, will they think she wants to be pet? If my reply is too short, will I be branded as rude? If she growls under her breath, will she be branded as mean?
Here is the chicken and egg so many dog trainers love shouting about on the internet. Am I anxious because my dog is anxious? Or is she anxious because I’m anxious?
I prefer asking how much I care and whether we’re happy.
It’s normal to be affected by our loved ones. Healthy, even—we’re social creatures, us humans and these dogs we domesticated tens of thousands of years ago. But there’s a point at which our interplays become toxic, and that’s the intersection we need to reevaluate.
I want to factor Scout’s preferences into my habits. I want to think about her mental state and physical comfort and overall experience of the world. The choices I make about my life also impact hers. I just don’t want to feel paralyzed by worry.
In an attempt to find this balance, my dog and I work on specific things: daily lifestyle habits, obedience commands, reading each other’s signals. I journal and ramble and identify improvements I think will boost our shared quality of life. And at a certain point? We throw our hands up, insist we’re done optimizing, and jog into the literal sunset together—refusing to allow a blip of mild leash tension or moment of squirrel fixation or awkward “no, sorry, she doesn’t want to say hi” to mar the evening.
I could look at our relationship as one of sacrifices. I ask Scout to resist her instincts on a walk; she bemoans my lessons in delayed gratification when the rabbit is right in front of her; I interact differently with my own species on her behalf. Perhaps I’ve frustrated her canine nature and missed potential friendships and held us both back.
Or I could see it as one of opportunity. The more self control Scout develops, the easier it is to invite her to experience the world. The more I second-guess decisions, the greater my internal push to think about them, evaluate options, consider what I am doing and why instead of moving forever on autopilot until the inevitable morning I wake gasping for sense and asking how I got there.
So the real question is: Does anything need to change? No, I answer. I’ll admit I’ve wondered if this is because I’m truly content or because I’m trying to convince myself as much as you—but those moments are increasingly rare and small and pale against the color that is Actual Life With Scout. If Sean and I didn’t have our shy-but-sweet cattle dog, our path might look much as it does now: quiet moments and private adventures and familial love adorned by glimmers of outward connection.