It Begins
Brownie and I met in 2011. She was a little over a year old and the absolute most adorable dog I had
ever seen in my life. I suppose, technically, I had met her before, a few weeks after she had been born, but I wanted all the puppies, even though a dog was not on my mind at the time. (They are a LOT of work, and I was still in party mode.) She was the runt of an accidental litter (Jasper the Pibble broke down the bedroom door to reach Zaphira, and lovemaking ensued), chocolate brown (hence why the kids named her Brownie) with a few patches of white.
Anyway, I was visiting my friends Jamie and Tom, and the two teenagers and three of their dogs were vying for my attention every time I moved. Not Brownie, though. Brownie got over her initial excitement and laid down on the couch. After the other dogs and children had chilled, I found myself covered in 50 lbs of chocolate cuddliness, not even realizing that I had been petting this dog in my lap for at least an hour. I was so calm and happy and completely in love. The evening was kind of a blur, mostly from the passage of time and the shortening of this story over and over and over. Brownie, in my lap and contented, gave me kisses, and I told her how I loved her and wanted her to come home with me and be my snuggle bear forever and ever and ever. And those were the words that changed my life forever.
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| This is the day we met and fell in love |
ever seen in my life. I suppose, technically, I had met her before, a few weeks after she had been born, but I wanted all the puppies, even though a dog was not on my mind at the time. (They are a LOT of work, and I was still in party mode.) She was the runt of an accidental litter (Jasper the Pibble broke down the bedroom door to reach Zaphira, and lovemaking ensued), chocolate brown (hence why the kids named her Brownie) with a few patches of white.
Anyway, I was visiting my friends Jamie and Tom, and the two teenagers and three of their dogs were vying for my attention every time I moved. Not Brownie, though. Brownie got over her initial excitement and laid down on the couch. After the other dogs and children had chilled, I found myself covered in 50 lbs of chocolate cuddliness, not even realizing that I had been petting this dog in my lap for at least an hour. I was so calm and happy and completely in love. The evening was kind of a blur, mostly from the passage of time and the shortening of this story over and over and over. Brownie, in my lap and contented, gave me kisses, and I told her how I loved her and wanted her to come home with me and be my snuggle bear forever and ever and ever. And those were the words that changed my life forever.
"You can have her if you want," Jamie said. The statement took me by complete surprise. Was she being serious? Who would just give away a dog, especially one as cute and calm as this one? I didn't even live in a place that allowed dogs, let alone was big enough to give her a good home. But then Jamie said it again, "You can have her if you want. She obviously likes you, and we know you would be a terrific dog mom."
The shock was wearing off, but still there. It was all I could do to choke out, "Okay." I couldn't take her home with me right then and there, as much as I wanted to, because I was in an efficiency at the time. We talked about how we were going to go about everything before I left alone.
The shock was wearing off, but still there. It was all I could do to choke out, "Okay." I couldn't take her home with me right then and there, as much as I wanted to, because I was in an efficiency at the time. We talked about how we were going to go about everything before I left alone.
A few months later, I was still patiently waiting out my lease, when I had the opportunity to visit Tom and Jamie again (they lived two hours away). Immediately after sitting down, my baby girl jumped up on the couch and turned me into her sleeping pillow once more.
"This is why we want you to have her. Brownie doesn't even go on the couch when we have visitors," Jamie told me.
"She's not an attention whore?" I asked.
"Not a whorish bone in her body."
"Not a whorish bone in her body."
In August (two months later), I picked Brownie up. She's been stuck to me ever since. It was a very rough beginning too.
A New Life
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| BFFs |
Brownie's world was ripped apart the day I picked her up. I wish I had known then what I know now. Apparently, severing a dog from her pack later in life can do some emotional damage. So can being overly cuddly in the first few days. My poor girl started to suffer from separation anxiety, although, at the time, I thought it was just adjusting to the new life. The neighbors (fortunately, very understanding young ladies) let me know that she cried every day when I left for work. She was frightened my roommates, growling every time they went near her kennel. She would visibly shake whenever I was leaving for anything but work and followed me around the house all day, every day.
For a while, I tried to do whatever I could to "fix" my dog, reading books, watching YouTube videos, and taking in all the advice I could. Early 2014, though, it was becoming unbearable. My baby was suffering, so I contacted a few professional trainers. I chose a great company with a reputation for helping dogs with severe anxiety. For two weeks, Brownie was with the trainer, working on her manners and training. It was difficult to live without her for that time, but it was worth it. When I picked Brownie up, I learned how to continue her training and make her a happy, confident puppy. We continued to go to group classes (part of the training program for the rest of Brownie's life) and work diligently. Brownie and I found a nice, happy medium with the training and the cuddling and everything.
Going Crazy (Long, But History Often Is)
When I was about 21, I began having panic attacks. I didn't know what they were at the time.
Neither did the doctors at the ER. They told me I was dehydrated. I had about four panic attacks, and then they stopped. I also suffered from depression, mild and manageable for the most part. I spent four years struggling to do something. I also "dated" a few guys who I knew weren't right for me, accidentally allowing them to move in with me or moving in with them less than a month after meeting them. I worked at hotels, Wal-Mart, and restaurants, managing to barely keep my jobs through the depression, crazy events, and illness that I seemed to get often.
And that's another thing about me. I get sick. A LOT. We're not talking about a simple cold where your nose is a little stuffy or runny and a small cough. I'm talking about upper respiratory infections, nausea that kept me on the couch and out of the fridge for weeks, the flu, and other crazy injuries (like straining the primary muscle in my lower back, forcing me to transfer departments) and illness that any normal person only has about 4.5 times a year. I, on the other hand, have the immense pleasure of horrible illness/injury about once or twice a month. If you follow this blog, you shall soon discover.
Anyway, somewhere in the fuzz of illness, depression, injury, crappy jobs, and crappy boyfriends, I somehow managed to apply for college and actually go. I saw a few therapists in training, but the depression got pretty bad, especially my sophomore year, barely passing two classes only by the good graces of professors who took pity on my not-so-great health. I managed, though, and then I was done.
Neither did the doctors at the ER. They told me I was dehydrated. I had about four panic attacks, and then they stopped. I also suffered from depression, mild and manageable for the most part. I spent four years struggling to do something. I also "dated" a few guys who I knew weren't right for me, accidentally allowing them to move in with me or moving in with them less than a month after meeting them. I worked at hotels, Wal-Mart, and restaurants, managing to barely keep my jobs through the depression, crazy events, and illness that I seemed to get often.
And that's another thing about me. I get sick. A LOT. We're not talking about a simple cold where your nose is a little stuffy or runny and a small cough. I'm talking about upper respiratory infections, nausea that kept me on the couch and out of the fridge for weeks, the flu, and other crazy injuries (like straining the primary muscle in my lower back, forcing me to transfer departments) and illness that any normal person only has about 4.5 times a year. I, on the other hand, have the immense pleasure of horrible illness/injury about once or twice a month. If you follow this blog, you shall soon discover.
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| Brownie and Mom taking care of me, watching TV |
After college, I got a job at the front desk of a "resort". The man who owned it acted like he owned the world. No breaks, you had to call him to sell people tickets to local attractions, and he really liked to yell at and belittle people. While I was there, a young woman began working with us, and she quit after a month, saying that she had been on one anxiety pill a day when she started and was taking more than four a day by the time her two week notice was up. I found a job elsewhere after five months at another resort with a new department (timeshare type-dealio).
BIG mistake. The men who co-owned the new department were seriously abusive. They would scream at customers and employees in public, trash talk behind everyone's back, and belittle everyone. I have worked in a lot of different places (30+, if you really want to know), and this has been the worst job I have ever had. The anxiety attacks began again, and my depression got so bad that I only went to work and went home. Television, work, sleep. That was my life, despite being 2 miles from two of my best friends and living with my mom, who is the best person in my life but more on her later. To top it off, my bills were high enough to require full-time work, so quitting my job was out of the question.
I finally quit, though, and went to work for a flower company that supplied annuals for a large corporation. It was the best job I could ever have had after the two abusive jobs. I was doing a lot of manual labor mixed with some creativity, surrounded by flowers and showered in sunshine. The customers who came in were usually very happy because they were doing something they loved (gardening), and I got to listen to my music. It was a very therapeutic job, and I highly recommend to anyone with limiting mental health problems that they get a job like it. Nature has a way of helping.
When my flower job started waning and went from full-time to part-time (part of the deal with this job), I began spending a LOT of days with friends at one of Wisconsin's most beautiful places, Devil's Lake. Again, very therapeutic. My mornings would be career position hunting and my afternoon would be filled with love and nature. This allowed me to get one of the best jobs of my life working at a conference center. Due to the fact that I still work here, a lot of details will not be a part of this.
Speedy version: When I started, I was still reeling from the abusive bosses, so every time my supervisor wanted to talk to me, I would FREAK out. I would worry over and over and over because I didn't know if I was in trouble, if this mistake would be my last, if I did something terrible. Of course, that was never the case. If I did something wrong, she would tell me what I did, how to fix it, and how to prevent it from happening again. My reviews were impeccable, and they genuinely liked me. Yet, I would cry big, fat, ugly cries whenever this wonderful, gentle woman asked if she could "talk to me in five minutes". Things got a lot better, and she could actually talk with me without it turning into a therapy session too.
After a year, I began getting restless. The people were amazing, but the work was very cyclical. You don't have a lot of things going on in December or June through August, plus, I was pretty fast at my job. I attempted to transfer to a different department, but I found out that not all areas have the same attitude as others. The department was angry and my depression made it worse. I was grinding my teeth so much (awake and asleep) that I cracked a tooth and got sick more. I also messed up my work a lot. It was to the point where I thought I was actually being self-destructive on a subconscious level. I transferred back as soon as I made sure the person replacing me had everything he or she needed. It was not a welcome return, though.
With my horrible health and a few other personal habits (apparently singing is not appreciated in a professional office), my first department had been more resentful than I had thought. They decided that I needed to be under the supervision of someone more authoritative. We had a meeting my first day back, basically telling me that I needed to shape up or they would ship me out. Then the anxiety attacks began happening. Every day. For weeks, I was scared, cried at the drop of a hat, made multiple mistakes, and walked around in a daze. Panic attacks also happened. I don't know how many I had, but I did know what they were. Somehow, though, I got out of it, and life moved forward.
The next spring, my personal life went haywire, and I started seeing a therapist. Sort of. When you are mandated by your insurance to see their providers (just like everyone else), the providers are pretty difficult to make steady appointments with. A few months later, anxiety started taking over my life once again, and I broke down and saw someone who prescribed me medication for Generalized Anxiety and Depression (although I denied the depression). The meds helped a lot. Until my horrible health got called into question.
I was told that I needed to start bringing in doctor's notes every time I got sick. It was inconvenient, but I tried to look at it positively because seeing the doctor every time I got sick meant a better record of my health and maybe faster recovery. The anxiety It ended up not being enough, though. I got sick about six or seven times between October and February (about twice a month). I was called into a meeting, this time with HR. I was told to shape up once again, and my doctors were accused of writing bogus notes. I was also told that this particular meeting was an investigative one, only to be mentioned in my file but not a formal reprimand. A week later, after my body was attacked once again by chronic bronchitis, the meeting did turn into a formal, written reprimand. At least they handed me FLMA and ADA paperwork to fill out, with a hint of a warning that filling out the ADA papers may result in unknown consequences because I needed to be physically in the office for certain job duties. And then the anxiety came back in full force, but I did manage to get the FLMA to go through for my chronic illness. The ADA didn't need to happen, but it did set into motion something else.
Training
I walked into a group class early one day, and my trainer was working with a new trainer for
OccuPaws, a service animal training organization. That's when the light clicked that Brownie really could be a service dog. She had the temperament, most of the training, and she loves me so much that training her is a breeze. My mom had been trying to talk me into this for a while, with almost all of my panic attacks happening when I was not with family or friends and usually in public places.
My trainer asked me what I wanted to teach her in order to help me. He suggested pulling me away from people, and I knew I wanted her to "hug" me. He taught me how to teach her pulling and "hugging". Pulling was quite easy since I had already established during our playtime that "Go" meant we were racing to somewhere. It took about 5 treats for her to learn it. The hug is still a work in progress, but it's actually almost part of doggie nature. Dogs know when people are sad, and the natural instinct is to cuddle. A doggie hug is a little more precise, though. Basically, when I have an attack, she needs to put pressure on top of my chest about level with my heart. This pressure and chest to chest contact grounds me to reality and allows for a faster recovery. I have no idea why, but I almost never want to work on this. If I were to venture a guess, it's because I still don't want to admit that the panic attacks are real.
The Man Who Gave Me Courage
We met a wonderful man in the Spring of 2015, shortly after the discussion with the trainer. I'd like to reserve our story for another entry, though. Suffice it to say, this man is perfect for me, understands my anxiety, loves my dog, and loves me. Did I mention he's also a chef and I love food?
CJ (not his name) encouraged me to nail down the pulling command and get her into public. After speaking to my therapist, who loved the idea, he was the one to hold my hand as I slipped on the service dog vest then walked into public places with my dog at my hip. He is also trying to help me when I come upon stumbling blocks in my life like access disputes and high anxiety days.
Wrapping Up (For Now)
So there you have it. My life so far in the context of my dog and my sanity. Here's everything in short:
1. Brownie chose me, and she was 2 years old when she came to live with me.
2. Brownie has anxiety too, but training is the best way possible to help that, and we went with the best.
3. I'm crazy, officially labeled with Generalized Anxiety and Depression.
4. I'm chronically sick.
5. CJ's perfect.
6. Brownie is now officially my service dog.
I finally quit, though, and went to work for a flower company that supplied annuals for a large corporation. It was the best job I could ever have had after the two abusive jobs. I was doing a lot of manual labor mixed with some creativity, surrounded by flowers and showered in sunshine. The customers who came in were usually very happy because they were doing something they loved (gardening), and I got to listen to my music. It was a very therapeutic job, and I highly recommend to anyone with limiting mental health problems that they get a job like it. Nature has a way of helping.
When my flower job started waning and went from full-time to part-time (part of the deal with this job), I began spending a LOT of days with friends at one of Wisconsin's most beautiful places, Devil's Lake. Again, very therapeutic. My mornings would be career position hunting and my afternoon would be filled with love and nature. This allowed me to get one of the best jobs of my life working at a conference center. Due to the fact that I still work here, a lot of details will not be a part of this.
Speedy version: When I started, I was still reeling from the abusive bosses, so every time my supervisor wanted to talk to me, I would FREAK out. I would worry over and over and over because I didn't know if I was in trouble, if this mistake would be my last, if I did something terrible. Of course, that was never the case. If I did something wrong, she would tell me what I did, how to fix it, and how to prevent it from happening again. My reviews were impeccable, and they genuinely liked me. Yet, I would cry big, fat, ugly cries whenever this wonderful, gentle woman asked if she could "talk to me in five minutes". Things got a lot better, and she could actually talk with me without it turning into a therapy session too.
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| How Brownie really likes to take care of me when I'm sick |
With my horrible health and a few other personal habits (apparently singing is not appreciated in a professional office), my first department had been more resentful than I had thought. They decided that I needed to be under the supervision of someone more authoritative. We had a meeting my first day back, basically telling me that I needed to shape up or they would ship me out. Then the anxiety attacks began happening. Every day. For weeks, I was scared, cried at the drop of a hat, made multiple mistakes, and walked around in a daze. Panic attacks also happened. I don't know how many I had, but I did know what they were. Somehow, though, I got out of it, and life moved forward.
The next spring, my personal life went haywire, and I started seeing a therapist. Sort of. When you are mandated by your insurance to see their providers (just like everyone else), the providers are pretty difficult to make steady appointments with. A few months later, anxiety started taking over my life once again, and I broke down and saw someone who prescribed me medication for Generalized Anxiety and Depression (although I denied the depression). The meds helped a lot. Until my horrible health got called into question.
I was told that I needed to start bringing in doctor's notes every time I got sick. It was inconvenient, but I tried to look at it positively because seeing the doctor every time I got sick meant a better record of my health and maybe faster recovery. The anxiety It ended up not being enough, though. I got sick about six or seven times between October and February (about twice a month). I was called into a meeting, this time with HR. I was told to shape up once again, and my doctors were accused of writing bogus notes. I was also told that this particular meeting was an investigative one, only to be mentioned in my file but not a formal reprimand. A week later, after my body was attacked once again by chronic bronchitis, the meeting did turn into a formal, written reprimand. At least they handed me FLMA and ADA paperwork to fill out, with a hint of a warning that filling out the ADA papers may result in unknown consequences because I needed to be physically in the office for certain job duties. And then the anxiety came back in full force, but I did manage to get the FLMA to go through for my chronic illness. The ADA didn't need to happen, but it did set into motion something else.
Training
I walked into a group class early one day, and my trainer was working with a new trainer for
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| One of Brownie's commands |
My trainer asked me what I wanted to teach her in order to help me. He suggested pulling me away from people, and I knew I wanted her to "hug" me. He taught me how to teach her pulling and "hugging". Pulling was quite easy since I had already established during our playtime that "Go" meant we were racing to somewhere. It took about 5 treats for her to learn it. The hug is still a work in progress, but it's actually almost part of doggie nature. Dogs know when people are sad, and the natural instinct is to cuddle. A doggie hug is a little more precise, though. Basically, when I have an attack, she needs to put pressure on top of my chest about level with my heart. This pressure and chest to chest contact grounds me to reality and allows for a faster recovery. I have no idea why, but I almost never want to work on this. If I were to venture a guess, it's because I still don't want to admit that the panic attacks are real.
The Man Who Gave Me Courage
We met a wonderful man in the Spring of 2015, shortly after the discussion with the trainer. I'd like to reserve our story for another entry, though. Suffice it to say, this man is perfect for me, understands my anxiety, loves my dog, and loves me. Did I mention he's also a chef and I love food?
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| We flew to South Carolina and found the ocean |
Wrapping Up (For Now)
So there you have it. My life so far in the context of my dog and my sanity. Here's everything in short:
1. Brownie chose me, and she was 2 years old when she came to live with me.
2. Brownie has anxiety too, but training is the best way possible to help that, and we went with the best.
3. I'm crazy, officially labeled with Generalized Anxiety and Depression.
4. I'm chronically sick.
5. CJ's perfect.
6. Brownie is now officially my service dog.
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