Loving Harley for who she was
It's been six months since I lost Harley. I still cry every day but it doesn't last long. It's like a little cloud that blows through and sprinkles some emotion into my day. I feel guilty. I feel grief. I feel regret. I feel gratitude. I feel love. I feel a longing. The more I open to it, the more manageable it seems. Instead of bracing against it, not knowing how long or deep it will go, feeling my grief is just part of my day.
When I feel sad, I'll talk to her. I want to believe that she's still here, that she can still hear me. I tell her what I miss the most. That I miss holding her, I miss kissing her head. I miss her beautiful coat in her soft ears. What I say to her from the bottom of my heart is “I loved who you were.”
When I got Harley, there were so many things that I needed her to be. I had a picture of what owning a dog would be like and that picture was what I wanted. She was a character in my fantasy. All evidence that it wasn't working be damned. I wanted the relationship with a dog that Disney advertised. If we weren't fitting it, there was something wrong with us and not the picture.
Her separation anxiety seemed to be there from the start, but her fear based aggression came after a dog bite. For years I tried to manage it without really rocking the boat of our lives. Harley's behavior got bad enough to make me willing to try anything. Of course the answer was in the last place I wanted to look: Me. Harley didn't trust me because I wasn't taking care of her in the way she really needed. She didn't respect me because I didn't really give her a reason to.
I thought I was already the best owner possible. I was already a dog trainer. I had built a business so I could spend all day with her. What better dog owner could there possibly be? Unfortunately I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I wasn't doing the things I didn't know that I needed to be doing to earn the trust and respect I thought should have been a given from my dog.
Harley's struggles lead me to learn and change. Not willingly, but because my back was against a wall. When I stopped needing her to be something for me, when I took a step back and gave her room I was able to see who she was. When I stopped projecting on her, when I stopped being needy, when I stepped into the role of boss and out of the role of mother or friend or accidentally servant she had space to show me who she was.
I'm only partially joking when sometimes I say that Harley was a huge disappointment to me. I wanted a dog who I could love on. I wanted a dog who would listen to me and trust me no matter what I did. That was not the dog that Harley was.
Harley didn't love to cuddle. She would listen to me - if she thought my idea was better than hers or if she knew she had no other choice, and not out of any sense of loyalty. She listened to me because she didn't like the consequences of not listening to me, which I delivered softly, consistently, and usually laughing to myself at her defiant spirit.
Going through my healing journey I needed a lot of love and support. Harley’s calm company was invaluable. I cherished just being with her, but she was not a cuddly dog. Sometimes she would lay on the couch with me. When it was cold she would sit under a blanket with me or cuddle on my bed, but usually she had her own fur blanket that I would wrap her in at night on her little dog bed. She only wanted to sit on my lap if it was the most comfortable place available.
She loves to give kisses, which was not my favorite way of interacting with a dog, but that was okay. She loved it and I let her do it. When her excitement was tinged with anxiety, instead of meeting my own need of having an emotive excited and joyful reunion with my dog, I met her need for me to reinforce the calm mindset that I wanted to foster in her. I know that Harley loved being with me, but she would often show preference to anyone else who happened to be around - a partner, a friend or roommate. Harley would cuddle up, sit on, and relish in being pet by these other people. Sometimes I swear she would look back at me to make sure I was watching.
Many of us have part of our self worth wrapped up in our relationship with our dog. We need for them to choose us, to be excited about us, to prefer us. I know that Harley loved me. I know that she needed me. I know that she appreciated my company, but she also loved to share her sweetness with and get affection from almost anyone else. As my friend said to me the other day on a call to commemorate Harley’s birthday, “between you, me, and Harley, she loved getting attention the most and not saying something.”
Harley knew exactly what she could get away with and she loved to play with that line. On the summer hikes she ran ahead of us to go stand in the shade while I made my pack walk behind me in a heel. She would literally back out of group photos after I placed her in my line up of off leash dogs, as if I wouldn't notice. She didn't like being so close to the other dogs or waiting in the sun. Sometimes I would call her back. Sometimes I would let her do what she wanted. I had nothing to prove. I didn't need a perfect dog. I needed a relationship that worked for us, one where we could both be who we were and safely enjoy the things we loved doing together.
Harley was a smart, independent thinker when I would tell her to come along, especially at the barn where so much of my time was spent riding in circles she would understand the command, evaluate it, watch my next move, and decide if it really was in fact, the best course of action.
Harley was an amazing dog, but that doesn't mean she was an angel. I would fuss at her really regularly. She would push the limits regularly. I didn’t take this as a censure on our relationship, my training, or her character. This was who she was: sassy, defiant, strong willed, intelligent. She was a dog that would make me earn my authority over her, not give it over out of loyalty or let me ride on the credit I’d accrued over the past decade plus.
In all the ways that Harley was a disappointment were also ways that she was a gift. Instead of getting the ‘perfect dog,’ I learned how to love my dog perfectly. We both benefited and grew from our connection. I could guide her, but I couldn’t change her. Once I was able to see the real her, I never would have wanted to. I got the greatest gift a lover can hope for, that of seeing and appreciating her for exactly who she was.