They say you shouldn’t start a new relationship in your first year of sobriety. I didn’t plan to. I’d made a total mess of my life with my drinking and I knew staying sober had to be my number one priority. Anything I put ahead of it I’d lose.
But early in my recovery I met a girl and a dog. It didn’t work out with the girl. The dog, though, is another story, one with a happy ending. Not that I could see it coming, considering our first encounter.
It all started when I took the girl back to her house after a date and she invited me in. Cool. I liked her. Maybe she felt the same way about me. Then on her doorstep she said something that made my heart drop: “I hope you like my dog.” I would’ve turned tail and run but she already had her key in the door.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like dogs. I’d never actually let one close enough to find out, not after what happened to me the Halloween I was seven. I was trick-or-treating. I’d just opened our neighbors’ gate when a massive shape came hurtling at me out of the dark. Their German shepherd.
He was bigger than me. Way bigger. Before I could slam the gate shut, before I could even scream, the dog sank its teeth into my arm. The physical scars faded. The emotional scars, not so much. I’d been wary of dogs ever since. Even peewee-sized pups like the one that charged up to the door now.
“This is Kingston,” the girl said. “He’s a Tibetan terrier.” She sounded like a proud mom.
He could have been a Tibetan mastiff as far as I was concerned, but I knew that to have any chance with her, I’d have to man up and face this 15-pound ball of fluff. “Hey, little guy,” I said in what I hoped was a dog-friendly voice. I took a deep breath and reached down to pet him.
Kingston bared his teeth and growled. I didn’t just flinch. I jumped. I couldn’t help it.
The girl laughed. It must have been funny to see a ball of fluff make a grown man cower. “He’s only seven months old, so he can get rambunctious,” she said, tugging me past him. He lunged and snarled. “Don’t worry, he’s a real sweetie once you get to know him.”
Would I get to know the dog? Or the girl, for that matter? My fear was overriding my attraction to her. Okay, it wasn’t just her dog. Truth was, relationships scared me too.
As soon as a girl wanted to get serious, I disappeared, afraid that if I let someone get too close, they’d see right through me, see past the charming exterior to the abject failure I really was. I was afraid of my feelings. Afraid of the future, of life, of myself.
What was I going to do now that I could no longer use alcohol to smooth out the rough edges? How could I ever trust anyone enough to have a relationship with her when I couldn’t even trust myself?
After all, I’d made all the wrong choices so far. My twenties were a boozy blur. One terrible memory stands out, though. I drove to a club in L.A., got totally trashed. At closing time I poured myself into my car and headed for home. Never got there. Blacked out.
When I came to, I discovered I’d caused a guy and a girl to crash their motorcycle. This was horrible. It was one thing to destroy my own life, but to wreck the lives of these two strangers and not be able to do anything except watch dumbly as an ambulance took them away? I’d never felt so weak, so worthless.
A cop cuffed me and put me in the backseat of his patrol car, caged behind the mesh partition. I’d never been much of a praying man, but I knew about God, though I wasn’t sure he knew about me. I bowed my head and asked—no, begged—God to spare the lives of that couple.
Please don’t take them, Lord. This is my fault. Take me. I looked at my shackled hands. I was totally powerless. Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do. By the grace of God, the couple on the motorcycle didn’t suffer serious injuries. They survived.
I’d survived too, but I wasn’t sure why. Maybe that was the reason I jumped right into a relationship, despite my recovery counselor’s warnings about my not being ready. Dating was something familiar, something to cling to while I tried to figure out what to do with myself.
So I kept dating the girl despite her little terror of a terrier. It turned out that I saw more of him than of her, at least during the week. Unlike me, she had a life. She’d go to work, to the gym, to run errands.
I sat around her house—it was nicer than my place—halfheartedly looking online for jobs. I tried to meditate, like I’d learned in rehab. And pray, not for my will to be done in my life, but God’s.
One day I got myself a turkey sandwich for lunch. I was about to take a bite when I heard a low growl by my feet. Kingston. I shooed him away. He didn’t budge. Another growl. Don’t flinch, I told myself. Don’t show weakness. Not this time.
The growl became a different sound. Was that a whine? Kingston was staring up at me, his dark eyes imploring. Maybe he’s not so tough, I thought. Maybe he’s been putting on an act and really, he’s as scared as I am.
I took a chance. I pulled some turkey from my sandwich and carefully held it out to him. He gobbled it up. The look in his eyes was softer. Amazing, I thought. He didn’t bite me.
Sharing lunch became our routine. One afternoon when I plopped down on the couch, Kingston leaped up beside me and lay down. I stroked his silky black fur. He snuggled closer. Is this what they mean by male bonding?
Soon we were going on long walks and meditating (well, Kingston was probably napping) together. His peaceful breathing calmed me. I taught him simple commands. Sit. Stay. Down. Then more complicated stuff.
Within a few weeks, he would walk obediently beside me, off leash, and come to me the minute I called his name. I had to show off for his mom. “Check this out,” I told her one evening. “Kingston, come.” He trotted right over. “Stay.” He stood there, his eyes never leaving mine.
I pointed my finger at him like a gun and said, “Bang.” Kingston fell to the ground, rolled on his side and lay there motionless. Only when I said, “Okay, good boy,” did he get up. I petted him, and he wagged his entire body.
“Wow,” his mom said. “You guys really love each other.” She was right. Even though we eventually broke up, it was so clear Kingston and I belonged together that she let me keep him.
Who would’ve imagined that the first real relationship of my life—where the commitment and love ran deep and true—would be with a dog? It got me thinking that maybe I could work with other dogs, have other relationships.
I volunteered at a shelter and asked one of the trainers to mentor me. I’d worked there just a few weeks when he told me, “You have a gift with dogs. A calling.” That was going overboard, I thought.
Then one night, I was meditating when I heard a voice say, That’s your dog. An image came to me. A good-sized dog with a thick, golden coat and pointed ears. Clear as day.
The next morning, I saw that very dog. He was a Jindo, a Korean guard-dog breed. The label on his cage said he was severely aggressive. “No way,” I said, backing off. “I’m not ready for a dog like that.” I’d stick with puff balls.
A few nights later I heard the voice again. Go get that dog. This time I played fetch with him. When I tried to get the ball out of his mouth, he lunged at me, jaws snapping. He went back into the cage, and I went home. The voice spoke to me again. That dog is meant for you. I want you to bring him home.
Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do. That’s what I’d promised God that night in the back of the police car. The night my life should have ended. God gave me a second chance. Didn’t this dog deserve one too?
I went back to the shelter and adopted the Jindo. I named him Renge and worked with him every day. It took a lot more time than with Kingston, but I broke through his fear and got him to trust me. And I learned to trust him.
Renge came to love me and Kingston and the other members of our pack, especially Brooklin, the beautiful, spirited woman I met and married.
Word got around about the miracle I worked with Renge, and people brought their problem dogs to me. Really, it doesn’t compare to the miracle that was worked on me. How else could a guy who was deathly afraid of dogs find a wonderful new life as a professional dog trainer?
When trust replaces fear, anything can happen.
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