How my dogs help me in helpless times

When I'm not sure where else to turn, there they are

Life finds a way to offer us the gift of grief. My mom who died of cancer when I was 32, my heart dog who died of cognitive decline and arthritis, and two of my three siblings, whom I don’t speak to anymore. My relationship with my sister came to a natural end (she wasn’t well, it was negatively affecting my mental health, and our conversations became counter-productive), and the falling out with my brother was his choice (he was rightfully insulted by a text that wasn’t actually intended for him, and reacted by calling me one last time to wish me dead at the top of his lungs. It hurt).

I share these stories (albeit briefly) because in each scenario, I felt helpless. Helpless against cancer, helpless against aging, helpless against my sister’s mental health, and helpless against my brother’s decisions. I spent time with my mom in the hospital, though not nearly enough. I worked tirelessly to care for a senior Momo, losing sleep for weeks on end. I uprooted my life out West and drove across Canada multiple times to spend time with my siblings after their mental health crises, only to feel helpless once again. I hope to have a healthy relationship with both of them one day. I really miss them.

In the end, I resorted to taking action in my own life. If I can’t offer advice, I might be best to lead by example. I decided to keep working toward a version of myself that I could love in a place I loved. I’m thankful to my dogs, who keep me busy, who bring me outside, who keep me in good health. And who offer me countless lessons wrapped up neatly in fur coats and a gentle embrace.

I’m lucky enough to have experienced a very wide spectrum of what it means to own a dog. I’ve had my heart dog that was absolutely perfect and died (Momo), the rescued mutt who does a darn good job replacing him (Boo), and the trouble-making, shoe-chewing, big energy dog that defies commands and stresses me the hell out (Yaya). Each of these experiences has helped me through helpless times.

I’m sure being child free and living alone has much to do with how my dogs have shaped me. I’m sure that if I had a child or a marriage or a house to renovate, that would become my teacher as well. But for me, it has always been my dogs. And no matter how big your life is, whether you have kids, a marriage, a house, or a multimillion dollar enterprise to run, if you have a dog, they create a rhythm in your life that is unavoidable.

Some would consider losing a dog a practice for real life. I’d place it in a category entirely of its own. Losing a dog a great teacher because your dog is your dependent, they rely on you for food, for exercise, for affection. If you travel, you have to shape your trip around them or find someone you trust who can give them 24 hour care. When you wake, they’re there, and the same when you sleep. They’re the antidote to the omnipresence of a phone. Losing them means letting go of a part of yourself.

The biggest support Yaya and Boo have given me comes from the fact that they have big energy. They are athletes, professionals in their own right. Boo would lift at the gym if he could. Yaya is meant to chase sheep for hours on end and something tells me he’d excel at it. To keep up with big energy dogs, I need to maintain big energy myself. Through injury, through sickness, through anxiety and depression, I have to find it in me to keep my body moving, and it turns out this has been a lifeline for my own mental and physical health.

Last year, a little tired of having to walk the dogs every single day, and feeling aimless in life, my ultimate surrender was a decision to walk the Continental Divide Trail, a 3000 mile hike from the Mexican to the Canadian border. I didn’t do it. I’m glad I didn’t do it. But I figured this would be the only way I wouldn’t have to walk my dogs every day – if my life were nothing but walking. They would have loved it. I would have probably hated it. But I ended up strength training in order to prepare for it. I wrote about it here. I kept the strength training. It’s a huge part of my life now, and a huge reason that I feel mentally capable to show up every day. Thanks, dogs. I feel good in my body not only because of you, but for you.

Where I live on the Sunshine Coast in Canada, the days in the winter are short and cold and it’s often raining all day, every day. The greatest tool against this is to face it head on. Dress for the elements, and move through it. If I didn’t have a Boo who stares at me relentlessly until he gets his walk, no matter the weather. If I didn’t have a vocal Yaya who cries endlessly until he gets to chase his brother Boo. I absolutely would spend entire days without leaving the house. This, I’m sure, would lead to a feeling of depression. A feeling I’ve managed to nearly extinguish , due to these dogs that drag me outside no matter how cold, how sideways the rain is, or how miserable the weather.

Momo’s loss put into context my mom’s loss. It showed me that my family didn’t process the grief we felt together, as we probably should have. That I needed to keep working on myself if I ever wanted to be able to show up for someone else. Momo also was my guiding light through some of the hardest times I’ve had. My own mental health journey wouldn’t have been possible without him. And hats off to Yaya and Boo for carrying that torch.

I feel helpless today. For all the things mentioned above, and as a Canadian living in a broken world. I find myself spiralling at 3am until I get out of bed at 6, giving up on sleep. I’m deleting the apps that feed me constant fear. And on the other side of my phone, there’s Boo, staring at me. There’s Yaya, with his big stretch telling me he’s ready to run.

They bring me into this great big world, where trees rooted in rich soil and rocky beaches change so slowly it’s almost undetectable. A completely self-sustaining natural world, indifferent to my existence, as it should be.

It’s like my dogs are suggesting that helplessness is not a state to fear. But rather, a normal feeling to feel. We are cosmically irrelevant. We are inconsequential. And that doesn’t mean we lie down and surrender, but we stand tall like the trees, and we live rich like soil. Rich in the eyes of our dogs, rich in experience and in health. And in doing so, I hope we can be an example for anyone watching. I hope I could build the strength necessary to rebuild broken relationships.

I thank myself today for the walk I took yesterday. And I thank my dogs for making me do it. It may not change the world, but being healthy in mind is the only reason I’m able to stand up in times when the weighted blanket of helplessness tries to hold me down.

With love,

Andrew, Yaya, & Boo