The Calling Card of Fear

Days after bringing Clara home, I started acclimating my new dog to her new life, which included, of course, walks. Or as it's known in my household, "going bye-bye," an expression carried over from my parents that I continued using when I got my first greyhound, Elvis, in 2002. "Let's go bye-bye," probably the most beautiful words you can say to any dog of mine. Bushes! Squirrels! More bushes! It doesn't get any better than that.

For years, I've walked my dogs around my neighborhood, but no more. Since fracturing my kneecap this past January, my weak knee can no longer handle local hilly streets. And so, I load "the kids" in my Honda CRV and off we drive to a nearby park, no more than ten minutes north or south.

It was on one of Clara's first car excursions when, minutes into our ride, I noticed toxic fumes wafting through my small car. Whoa. Apparently "somebody" had gas. But when we arrived at the park and Clara jumped from the back seat, I saw that it wasn't gas I'd smelled. My girl had left a calling card. Several, in fact. Okay, accidents happen. No biggie. 

Except it happened again. And again. Clara was never in the car for more than ten minutes, and I was even making sure she first did her business in the backyard, but it didn't matter. She kept pooping in the back seat. What the heck? Finally, out of desperation, I called Stu, the founder of Golden State Greyhound Adoption, and explained what was going on. His theory broke my heart.

"Think about it," he said. "It's likely that Clara's previous three owners never took her anywhere in a car. The only time she's been in a car has been when she was about to be surrendered to a new home. She associates the car with abandonment."

Oh my God, he was right. For lack of a more eloquent way to put it, with each car ride this poor dog was literally having the shit scared out of her. "Keep taking her to the same parks, keep the same routine," Stu continued. "In time, she'll come to recognize the route and associate the car with something positive."

It worked. After several weeks, driving to the same parks every morning and every afternoon, Clara stopped her fear-induced accidents. This should have been proof enough that Stu's theory had been correct, but months after she'd had her last back seat incident, her fear factor kicked in one more time. 

It was the day Aiden died. 

It was an unseasonably hot spring day and I was on my way to the vet with Clara in her usual back seat. I was trembling with fear, crying hot ragged sobs because deep in my gut, I knew what the vet was going to tell me after keeping Aiden all day for observation. He was going to say that surgery wasn't an option and I had to put my beloved boy down. Clara was with me because I've heard that dogs understand death and I wanted her to be there to say goodbye to the companion she had bonded with so fiercely during their short time together. Clara heard my cries, sensed my stress, thick and palpable. And sure enough, within minutes of our drive, that unmistakable acrid odor stung my nostrils. It was so strong I almost gagged and was forced to pull off to the side of the freeway to remove the source of the offending stench. Clara just watched me, shaking and subdued.

That was three months ago and her final accident. 

These days, when I say "let's go bye-bye!" Clara still trembles but now it's with excitement. She leaps into my car the second the door swings open, anxious to get to the park where she knows she'll see her new greyhound pals, Dawn, Bernie, Pickles, Hamilton, and Arrow. She knows a ride in the car now means cavorting with her canine crew to dig holes in the sandpit and check out bushes! Squirrels! More bushes! Best of all, when taking a new or different route, Clara isn't scared because she also knows one more thing: 

She knows she'll always return home.