Is my anxiety a dog training superpower?
Naturally nervous, I’ve become very good at avoiding things my dog overreacts to. But it’s wearing on me.
My anxiety is deeply ingrained. Some of my earliest memories are tinged with it. Starting in first or second grade, I religiously used the bathroom during recess even if I didn’t need to because I was terrified of having to ask a teacher to leave class to go. After a trip to the grocery store with my mom, I made sure the ice cream went straight in the freezer out of fear of it melting. Around age 10, I struggled to fall asleep because I kept thinking about how going to sleep is kind of like dying.
As an adult I’ve similarly had all sorts of worries. Some might be more relatable—like analyzing everything I said at a party. Some border on obsessive compulsive symptoms. I had a period where I was washing my hands repeatedly because of an outsized fear of lead poisoning.
I always imagined that getting a dog would mediate my mental health woes. That’s often how dogs are portrayed: happy creatures living in the moment with endless love to give, helping their human companions find joy. And that might be true in many cases. Studies of dog owners have shown their companionship is linked to improved well-being.
But I wonder what would happen if the same research was done for owners of reactive dogs—the dogs that bark, lunge and otherwise freak out about everyday things like other dogs, people, and cars. To manage our dogs’ stress and prevent the embarrassment caused by their explosions, we take them outside at odd hours, avoid crowds, and frequently look over our shoulders, anticipating the threat that may be looming around the corner. What we thought would be a relaxing activity—walking our dogs—is a source of daily stress.
This can feed into existing anxiety. My dog is an overexcited, frustrated greeter who throws a sort of tantrum when passing by other dogs. Everytime I take Halle somewhere new, I think about how busy it might be, what to do when I run into other dogs, what escape routes I have. Instead of an outlet to feel present and exercise, walks are another way for my anxious mind to rattle off all the ways things can go wrong.
While it might be wearing on my wellbeing, the flip side is this vigilance has probably benefited my dog. My dog actually hardly ever has big reactions anymore because I rarely get caught off guard. My “let’s go” and “this way” cues to create distance have practically become a reflex, engaging with zero thought required. She’s becoming more relaxed both at home and outside, likely helped by the decrease in stressful incidents. Stress hormones can remain elevated for days after a reactive outburst, I learned recently in a webinar.
My anxious disposition is a boon for working with my wary dog. At least, that’s my hypothesis. I often wonder: would my dog have a harder time if I was more chill?
It’s one of those conundrums anxious people face. It’s not unlike the times I’ve wondered if my anxiety improves my journalism. Sometimes details in a story I’m unsure about feel sticky in my mind, leading me to do more fact checking, which improves the accuracy of my work. Another example: the early pandemic, when I was really good about washing my hands ASAP when entering the house, not touching my face, and always having masks available. I saw well-meaning but less anxious friends forget these details while my neurotic brain constantly had them in front of mind.
Obviously, maintaining this anxiety-driven focus is exhausting. I’d like to believe there’s a less antagonistic relationship available between mental health and training a sensitive dog. Some awareness is helpful, for sure, but curbing it before it turns into festering worry is something I still need to learn how to do.