A Daily Dose of Radical Acceptance and Joy

I begin to learn by practicing with my girl; she teaches me tenderness.

She’s a nervous little thing. The world makes her tremble. A raised voice makes her cringe. A sudden sneeze sends her flying into another room, as if she’s running for her life. I try to console her, but she’s just who she is. So, I work with her needs. I’m patient and kind.

I remember never to yell at her or raise my voice in her presence. She cowers at the sound of loud voices. Sometimes she spooks and I have no idea why. My therapist teaches me about the concept of radical acceptance. I’m supposed to be practicing this in all areas of my life, but I begin to learn by practicing with my girl; she teaches me tenderness. I accommodate her idiosyncrasies. I accept and cherish her with all of her anxiety, though I wish for her sake that she was free from it, that she felt more serene.

She came from Georgia, found abandoned in the woods. The rescue brought her north, and through magic, or synchronicity, or just plain old good-timing, our paths crossed. I like to think an angel was involved. She came to live with me after a traumatic beginning.

I met her when she was 4 months old. She spent the month before her transport to New York in a crate at a southern shelter fighting diseases that nearly killed her. She was underweight, her ribs countable through her coat. She’d lost her mother, and was eventually separated from her siblings.

When I walked into her foster home she was quaking in a corner and wouldn’t come to me. She wouldn’t let me touch her or engage with her in any way, though she never let me out of her sight. Her whole body vibrated with fear. Her sister was friendly with kisses. “Take me, take me!” she seemed to say as she jumped up and down, excited to meet me. Of course, of the two, her sister might have been the easier choice, but I knew this frightened little one was the pup I had to have. She needed special attention that I could provide. I recognized her fear, her need for love and a safe place. It was something I related to. She huddled, tucked in a ball on my lap, as I carefully drove us home.

I decided at bedtime that I would let her sleep with me. She was afraid and in a strange environment, and I wanted her near me in case she needed anything. Dogs are pack animals, and I was her new pack. I wanted to comfort her, to hold her close, this jumpy, fretful pup. The creases in her brow seemed indelible. Permanent scars from her short life of worry and fear. I put her on my bed and got underneath the blanket. She burrowed under and surprised me by curling up in my armpit. She was tiny and fit perfectly. She slept. I didn’t.

We’ve been together for 5 years now. She’s grown into her body. Her worry lines have faded, though they’re quick to reappear in times of stress. She’s no longer a scrawny pup, she’s filled out some. Her muzzle, once black against her rusty coat, has grayed a bit, her whole face softer. Her anxiety has mellowed, but her basic character is the same. She’s as predictable as the sunrise in some moments, and as surprising as an earthquake at others. There are times when she’ll come when I call, and other times she seems completely terrified of me, as if I were a stranger. When she won’t come, I step away and give her space so she can approach on her own terms.

I absolutely adore this sweet little girl. Her delicate face, and the dainty, mannerly way she crosses her front paws when she’s on the couch, watchful of everything around her. She’s on duty all the time. I’m very careful not to startle her. It doesn’t feel like walking on eggshells, I’m being mindful of her boundaries and limitations. It’s about love and radical acceptance.

Maisy (left) with her brother Hugo.

Every morning, I let her out to pee. I wonder as I get her food ready if she can hear me in the kitchen while she’s outside. I measure out the kibble. Can she hear it pouring into the metal bowl, making soft plinking sounds? Can she smell it? A dog’s sense of smell is at least 100 times greater than a human’s. Or is she just so accustomed to our routine that she knows what comes next?

I get to the door and she’s waiting. She’s outside, bouncing up and down, and spinning in tight fast circles, like a circus dog who knows her tricks inside and out. Her excitement is boundless, her joy apparent, and I swear I can see a smile on her face. I almost don’t want to let her in right away so she’ll perform some more. I remind myself that it’s not a show. This is her pleasure on display. She’s hungry and loves to eat. She barks a little, as if she’s scolding me for the delay. I tell her in a soft voice to be quiet, bringing my index finger to my lips, bending down slightly. I say, “Shh, we don’t want to wake the neighbors!” In the morning at breakfast time, she’s a different dog than the one I see during the rest of the day. I don’t want to make her wait another minute.

My heart leaps, and I laugh out loud…a hearty, belly laugh. I laugh like this every morning, and every night, when we repeat the process for dinner. My laughter doesn’t scare her in the least. Her enthusiasm never gets old for me. I revel in her freedom. Her moments away from her other self, the part of her that’s paralyzed with fear and insecurity. Her hypervigilance vanishes in those moments, and is replaced with the sheer anticipation of her next meal.

I open the back door, and she runs and skips and almost hovers off the ground as she flies into the house. Her food is waiting at her spot. She devours her kibble, and in that time––a very short time, she eats so fast––her watchfulness returns. She armors up again to face the rest of the day, until it’s time for supper.

But oh, those moments when she’s unencumbered. I celebrate her with laughter so real, so fresh, that I give thanks for the gift she offers me each day.

---

Paid subscriptions are available for those who can and want to support The Next Write Thing. If you’re not into subscriptions, please consider making a donation from time to time!