How Invisible Illness Can Impact Dog Ownership

A decade ago, my mother was diagnosed with rheumatoid disease at 41 years old. (Her condition is often called rheumatoid arthritis, which is a misleading term since arthritis is just one symptom of a larger autoimmune problem.)

None of our lives have been the same since her diagnosis. I’ve learned so much watching her navigate the world with an invisible illness, being a mother and wife and teacher and dog owner and friend and everything else all with a silent war raging in her body.

Here are just a few things I understand now more than ever about caring for a dog while also struggling with a chronic disease. I’d love to see more empathy, kindness, and understanding in the dog ownership and training communities in general — and especially when we don’t know the full story of what someone else might be dealing with.

TLDR summary

• A chronic illness or disability does not mean you aren’t “worthy” of being a dog owner
• Across-the-board generalizations and “you should” statements can be harmful
• Respecting pet regulations to protect service dog teams is absolutely imperative
• It can be ableist to make quick judgments about fellow dog owners’ tool use
• Sometimes rehoming a pet truly is the best option
• Empathy and kindness are never the wrong choice

The below reel is meant as a visual companion to this blog

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A post shared by Haley 👩🏼‍💻 (dog nerd, writer) | Scout 🐺 (@paws.andreflect)

A chronic illness or disability does not mean you aren’t “worthy” of being a dog owner

I have pretty high dog ownership standards. Scout is an enormous part of my life — I take her care, fulfillment, and training very seriously. And I’m proud of that!

But while we shouldn’t take the responsibility of a living creature lightly, it’s also important not to cross a line into imposing arbitrary requirements on caretakers, gatekeeping pet ownership, or otherwise making people who live with any form of chronic illness or disability feel like they aren’t “good enough” to have a dog. High standards are just fine. Impossible standards that can only be met by fully able-bodied individuals, though? Much less fine.

Make no mistake: Not every person is a fit for every dog. (More on that in the rehoming section later on.) But I very much believe that the vast majority of people who want to live with a canine companion can find one that’s a good fit — and that we (our dogs and ourselves) can be incredibly adaptable when met with support and encouragement. Just because a prospective owner isn’t able to [insert whatever “classic” activity here, like going on long walks or competing in dog sports or so on] doesn’t mean they can’t provide an absolutely wonderful home to a pet.

Which leads into…

Across-the-board generalizations and “you should” statements can be harmful

This is one of my most passionate ideas as a dog owner, and my mom’s experiences have cemented it further. All of our lives look different. We may be united in our love for canines — but beyond that so many things vary between situations. None of us have the exact same lifestyles, personalities, preferences, capabilities, environment…

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A post shared by Haley (ft Scout & Sean) | Paws and Reflect (@paws.andreflect)

There are many ways to fulfill our dogs

While the internet is full of pressure to do a million specific things with the animals in our care, getting caught up in other people’s details can sometimes make life with our dogs worse instead of better. And here’s the thing: If you really care about being a good dog owner? Chances are you’re already on the right track.

Our intent, commitment, and willingness to adjust to our individual dogs — in our individual lives — matter far more than any arbitrary list.

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A post shared by Haley 👩🏼‍💻 (dog nerd, writer) | Scout 🐺 (@paws.andreflect)

Respecting pet regulations to protect service dog teams is absolutely imperative

Before I knew many service dog handlers firsthand, I struggled to understand why my pets shouldn’t be welcome in certain environments so long as they were well behaved. (And at the time, I’ll admit my definition of “well behaved” was pretty loose.)

I’ve since come to see the countless ripple effects of all of our decisions. “Getting” to bring their dogs in public is not a privilege for service dog handlers who struggle to function without their medical equipment (which is how service dogs are defined under the ADA) — it’s a necessity. And it’s a necessity that can be seriously jeopardized by even the “friendliest” pet dogs who enter spaces they shouldn’t be in.

My own mother does not have a service dog, but even the lesser-version things she’s experienced — like looks of judgment when she uses a handicapped bathroom stall but seems able bodied on the outside — have helped me better understand how important accessibility is.

It can be ableist to make quick judgments about fellow dog owners’ tool use

Ah, dog training tools.

Conversations about the things we use with our dogs — from retractable leashes to prong collars and everything in between — can be some of the most heated I’ve encountered in the ownership community. And I get it! We all come to the table with our own personal perceptions & connotations. There are people out there using a range of tools poorly. It’s absolutely fair to have an initial internal reaction to seeing a tool setup that makes us feel a certain way.

What isn’t fair, though? Making quick judgments about whether or not a dog is loved based on what they’re wearing. Attacking, shaming, or belittling handlers before asking any thoughtful follow up questions about their tool choices. Condemning fellow owners entirely based off of surface-level appearances.

A non-comprehensive list of things I’ve realized about tool use in relation to chronic illness:

• When taking a dog out in public (even just on a neighborhood walk) we need to consider the safety and comfort of everyone involved. This absolutely includes the dog. It also includes the handler. And other people in the shared space matter, too! (Denise Fenzi in particular is great about discussing the multiple “shareholders” in every situation.)
• Long lines and retractable leashes can serve similar purposes — but the automatic slack management of a flexi can be a game changer for handlers with joint pain or other mobility limitations. Not everyone who uses a retractable lead is an “irresponsible” owner. (You can read more thoughts about our own flexi use in this article.)
• The handle of a retractable leash can also be easier for some people to hold. (For others it’s harder. Nuance as always!)
• A prong collar, head halti, or other traditionally considered aversive tool might be what enables an owner to take their dog out in the world with them. Not everyone has the same physical abilities. Not everyone’s ideal walking or training setup will look identical.

In short: We shouldn’t make snap assumptions about tool use without taking time to understand the situation. And when in doubt or unable to chat through decisions or tempted to write someone off at first glance… I believe in the benefit of the doubt.

Sometimes rehoming a pet truly is the best option

As animal lovers, it’s easy to feel angry about the number of pets abandoned in shelters each year. Refrains that “dogs are a lifelong commitment” abound — and they’re true! When we bring a canine companion into our world, it’s important we’re prepared for what that might entail. It’s important we understand they’re sentient creatures who depend on us for pretty much everything. It’s important we do our best to give them the care they deserve.

But sometimes things happen that are out of our control. Sometimes a certain dog truly isn’t a fit for a given person or lifestyle. And the very last thing the owners making these gut-wrenching decisions need is shame, judgment, and vilification.

Personally, my family has been lucky to be able to still care for our animals even after my mom’s diagnosis. My parents live together near a strong support network of friends. On days that my mom’s knees or hands simply refuse to cooperate, my dad can take the dogs on a walk. They own ample property to provide fulfillment that’s low effort on the human end if needed.

But if my mom lived alone when her rheumatoid disease flared up, if she was in charge of high energy dogs by herself, if any one of the many variables were different… I could easily see how she might have been forced to rehome one of our family pets. It would have been heartbreaking. And it would not, in a million years, have been done lightly.

Make no mistake: Are there people out there who throw pets away like they don’t matter, who fail to understand what they’re getting into, who are cruel and unbothered? Sadly. But I do not believe most people who part with a pet in their lifetimes are doing it for the “wrong” reasons.

Empathy and kindness are never the wrong choice

My mother’s disease has taught me many things.

Some lessons I wish I never had to learn (like how difficult “simple” daily tasks can be, how much it hurts to feel helpless, that deep love can come with deep pain). Others I’m thankful for every day. The one that’s most changed how I interact with the world around me? A firsthand, inescapable understanding that the “everyone we meet might be going through something we can’t imagine” cliché is completely true.

Chronic pain has far-reaching impacts on mental health. Support networks are invaluable — and not everyone has them built in. Kindness is never the wrong answer, and assumptions usually just cause harm.

My fellow dog owners who live with invisible illness: I see you

I want to finish this piece with a poem I wrote for my mom a few years ago.

“Your illness is invisible, Mom, but I see you.

I see you sigh when you sit down and groan when you stand up.

I see your muscles tense when too much is asked of your hands. I see the tiny bend in your toe, the first physical sign that this disease has taken home in your body — something the rest of the world wouldn’t notice that is painfully obvious to you.

I see the entire water bottle you must go through just to take all of your medicine.

I see the cabinet full of pill containers and supplements. I see the essential oils, the vitamins, the attempts over and over to find something to keep this at bay.

I see the fear that someone with the luxury of a functioning immune system will come into work sick, wreaking havoc on your already-complaining body.

I see the judgment of those who do not understand weighing heavy on your heart.

I see the mountain of insecurity that is difficult enough to climb without screaming knees and swollen feet.

I see the disappointment in yourself when your body refuses to work, the disconnect between mind and tissue, the chasm deep and wide and lined with shame.

But I see everything else, too, Mom.

I see you sprinting towards anyone in need without a thought given to the pain it might cause your aching legs.

I see those hands of yours — the ones that sometimes fail to function — changing lives and caressing hearts and writing a story unlike any I’ve ever seen.

I see your feet, toe deformity and all, paving the way for me and my sister, walking the treacherous ground first so that we may trust it’s safe.

I see you laughing on the floor with the dog even though you know it will hurt to stand back up.

I see you waking up every morning after far too little rest with a smile and determination. And on the days where you can’t seem to muster up any sense of confidence?

I still see you have more grace than I could ever fathom.

I see you doing what needs to be done — steroids, shots, everything in-between — with a sense of realism I know I could never embrace.

I see you putting the entire world before yourself even when your body is screaming for you to be selfish.

I see you smile at the sound of your cracking joints, focused on the potential humor of the noise instead of what it represents.

I see you wrapping your arms around each person you meet. Who cares if those arms are tired of bending and carrying? I see they are still strong enough to lift even the heaviest spirit.

And I see that you don’t see half of these things. You know your pain better than anyone else — but you can’t begin to know your impact.

I see you suffering. And I see you giving us all the strength to thrive.

I see the way you take this bitter pill — and all the others you are forced to swallow — and find the smallest drops of sweetness inside.”

— written for Rheumatoid Awareness Day 2018