Padfoot chillin’ at the dog park.

I’ve spoken to two animal communicators since I adopted Padfoot. Melissa told me that he’d once had a person, but then he didn’t, and she had seen images of him wandering down what looked like a country road (which could be many roads inside the city). She said no one would help him and when he scavenged compost heaps for food, people would chase him off with garden implements.

Donetta told me his original owner kept him confined in a small space or tied up, and when he was tied up, neighborhood kids would torment him. She said his owner was someone like a criminal, maybe a drug dealer, who wanted a mean dog to scare people. Padfoot was not given training and he was not treated well. The criminal/drug dealer/bad guy dumped him because he wasn’t mean enough.

While Melissa is new to me, I have known Donetta for decades and so many of the things she has said have been verified. Still, I have no way to know if any of this is true. But it serves to remind me that dogs too often wind up in shelters because someone didn’t care for them: a puppy that was never trained becomes totally unmanageable when it hit adolescence. Or an older dog is cast off when they become ill and incontinent. Or the dog just plain becomes inconvenient for someone who doesn’t care.

Whatever their history, all shelter dogs come with some kind of trauma. In addition to being abandoned and facing an uncertain future, there is a good chance that the owner willing to dump them did not treat them well.

As I said, I have no way to verify any of the things Melissa and Donetta said. But I have been looking at Padfoot’s behavior—the scavenging and resource guarding and his wild man antics—through the lens of this story and it all fits.

The few times I tied him up, he flipped out. I guess I would too, if it left me vulerable to abuse.

July 4th he did not bat an eye as firecrackers blew up around the neighborhood during our walk, though he became anxious that night when fireworks went off. I suspect he was used to gunfire, since that’s what firecrackers sound like.

I’ve joked that when we are out walking, he acts like he’s the Secret Service and I’m the president’s daughter. After talking to Donetta, I’m wondering if he isn’t doing his very best to be a good dog according to the rules he knows, that the dog who wasn’t mean enough is determined not to get dumped again.

He loves being petted. But as he presents himself for a chest rub, he stares into the distance with this stoic expression like he’s undergoing a humiliating medical procedure. It makes me think he’s uncertain of his reception and is waiting for the shoe to drop.

When I see his behavior through the lens of trauma, it reminds me to be patient and and kind and loving while he figures things out.

We’ve made a lot of progress. Last week Padfoot went to book club and he was great, even riding the tiny elevator with strangers. I took him to the neighborhood block party for a brief visit early on when there were only a few guests. He was friendly to everyone, if a little anxious.

He’s feaking out less in the car, spending more time with his head out the window instead of bouncing back and forth between the front and back seats while beating my head with his tail and setting off the hazard lights. (Donetta didn’t say, but I bet his prior owner never took him for car rides, either.)

He’s a terrific loose leash walker when he’s not being reactive and those reactive episodes are fewer and less intense. He’s always liked to curl up against me but he now lays his head in my lap sometimes. And more and more he is giving me eye contact with a relaxed, happy face. Sometimes I even get kisses.

We’re in a good place.