Eli the Passover Miracle Angel Dog has been with us for almost two weeks now. He and Nina the Schmeen have finally made peace, and except for the occasional growl over a shredded plush octopus or a rawhide chew, they seem to be enjoying each other’s company.
He is a dear, dear, good boy, our Eli. Wants to shake paws with everyone, wants to snuggle, is starting to lose some of his serious countenance and is learning to play with Nina and with us. Beautiful, beautiful gentle temperament.
There are brushstrokes of my beloved F. in Eli. I admit it…it’s a great comfort. I miss F. so very much, but I get the impression he approves of the newcomer. As I was sitting on my bed the other day watching Eli sleep nearby, I suddenly got the sensation that F. was leaning against my left arm, relaxed and smiling, watching over Eli with me.
We love Eli, our big hunka hunka burnin’ shepherd love, and wish we could tell him he’s here to stay. The poor fella has raging separation anxiety. Calm as can be when his peeps are around, but, oh! a nervous wreck when we have to leave him (which hasn’t been too often). He even follows me from room to room. I draw the line at Jenny’s bathroom time, and we gate both of them out of the kitchen during (human) meals, but if he could, he would be glued to one of us every minute of the day.
We found out from his foster mama that he was actually worse when crated, very very very anxious. So we’ve held off on a crate (Fifi: Thank you for paying his vet bill instead). He’s not destructive in a frat-house-party sort of way, just scratches desperately at the door (we thought ahead and drilled Plexiglass over most of the scratch zone). And he barks and cries like we’re leaving him forever.
Which to me seems pretty damn rational, the sign of a smart, sensitive being who’s had a rough few years. God knows how many times people did leave him behind without looking back. The first rescue pics of him looked like he was abandoned somewhere and left to starve to death. Every rib, every knob of his spine showing. He gulps down his food like I have never seen any dog do. It’s heartbreaking. He’s already narrowly escaped death by an attack of bloat, so we have to ration out his food carefully. When his food bowl is empty, he gives us this look:
So, smart, wise, lovely people I depend on so often, what do you know about canine separation anxiety? Have any of you had a crate-phobic rescue dog with a history of neglect and bad don’t-ever-leave-me jitters?
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