Welcome to My Emotional Brain

I am reading these days about the new discoveries in neuroscience, the study of the brain. It’s a fascinating area of study and it solidifies my long belief that individuals don’t always act rationally; sometimes your emotions – or your gut – kicks in to tell you when a decision feels right, even if it isn’t wholly rational.

As I was reading a great book yesterday, I was thinking about the decision to adopt Molly. If I were using the rational part of my brain, I likely would not have set in place the wheels of adoption. After all, she has no known background, having been surrendered for a specious reason to a high kill shelter. A dog with no known background is a risky venture. She has had heartworm, a disease in dogs that might cause complications and, at minimum, requires lifetime medication and diligence. She has fear aggression, brought on by abuse that she suffered at the hands of reprehensible humans. I didn’t know how she would be around children, and I worried about her with Ayden, my beloved grandson. All I knew about her was the words on a website that is designed to “market” dogs and from foster parents who were strangers.

With all the love and empathy I had for Jim, I knew how much he was heartbroken over Suzie and wanted a new companion. I have to say here, I think I am a good companion; however, I don’t follow him around constantly, lay by a blanket at his feet while he plays guitar, or am constantly ready for a cuddle or a belly rub.

Jim wanted a new dog. He visited shelters and online sites. I gently suggested that a new Suzie would come in time, with serendipity and grace. We didn’t have to rush; the “universe” would show us when it was time. He thought I was half (well, maybe, completely) crazy.

And then there was Molly. Her story on the Black Dog Second Chance Rescue tugged at the emotional part of my brain. Although I processed the rational cautions, I paid attention to the part of my brain that said “she feels right”. I paid attention to the part of my brain that listened to the underlying love in the messages that her foster mother sent to me by email or my phone, all the while that she was giving me rational cautions about what might not be right with Molly. Empathy won over reason.

Molly has scored a perfect 10 (indeed a perfect 20) in the week that we have had her. She is all that we would want in a canine companion and more. Despite the arguments that warred through my rational brain, I have been proven wrong time and time again in the last eight days about her. My emotional brain was absolutely correct.

Yesterday I was listening from the living room to Jim talking to Molly downstairs. He was saying to her how they were both “second chance” situations. I didn’t know – and I didn’t ask – whether Jim believes his second chance was his sobriety through Alcoholics Anonymous or his “triumph” over kidney cancer. What was fascinating to me was the connection that he and Molly have over the fact that had sympathetic and empathetic humans not intervened, they would not have had the second chance. And had those humans acted perfectly rationally (remember, I was told that I should run away from having a life with Jim), neither of them would have had a “second chance” at the happiness and contentment they feel today. Reason would have hijacked Emotion.

And so I am affirmed in the belief that sometimes we pay too much attention to rationality and too little attention to emotion, empathy, and altruism. Reason doesn’t give a second chance. Rationality, the product of reason, is a crude and cruel discerner. Emotion (or the gut instinct that says “this feels right”) can be the best choice.

I am grateful in my life that I intuitively listened to my emotional brain. As I sit here writing this, Molly is lying at Jim’s feet listening to him play a love song.

And I think of the quote by Blaise Pascal that, loosely quoted, reminds us that the Heart has its reasons that Reason cannot know.

I am grateful that I made the decision about Molly with my emotional brain, the one that sends a welcome message to my heart.

I am No Longer Afraid

My name is Sister. And I have been afraid for most of my life. I am a dog.

Three human years have passed since I was born. I do remember there was a time just after I was born that I felt safe. I was sheltered by my “mother”, she would let me suckle and she would bathe me and correct me gently when I did something wrong. I had brothers and sisters and I learned to play and romp with them, all the while knowing that my mom was there to supervise and correct lovingly when any of us stepped out of line. I learned from my brothers and sisters about the right way to play; if I bit them out of excitement or fear or bullying, they would ignore me until I learned that it was much more fun to be playing than be ignored. I belonged. I was part of a pack of animals that were learning and growing and loving life together.

And then they were gone.

I am in a place called Kentucky now. I’m not sure about this. I can’t figure out how to behave in the way that is expected. It is different for me and so I am anxious to do the right thing. But, there is no mom to show me. I have one very big thing (a “human” I am told is the right word) that is gentle and kind and shows me what behaviour will get treats and food. There is another big thing (a Man “human” I am told) that is not so gentle. He will kick me if he is unhappy with me; he will chase me with a stick; he will lay that stick hard against my fur and my face.

I am so confused. And I am afraid.

The more I try to please, the less that I do right. Even if I try to skitter or skulk away, I am chased by this Man human. And it hurts.

There are smaller humans here. I have to curb my natural, inbred instincts not to herd them into a group and nip at their heels. They seem to be good to me. They touch me in places that feel like my mom’s touch. But they are afraid of the Man too. Often, they will sneak away to feed me treats and pat me even though I am in this cold basement place the Man throws me into. The feeling the little humans give me – it feels like the feeling that I had with mom. But, we are so careful not to be seen. It will not be a good thing for either of us if the Man sees. The energy around us is fear.

And I am afraid.

I am too young to have puppies. But, because of instincts and circumstances, I am left to breed three times in two years. I hope it makes these humans happy; I am trying so desperately to figure out how I fit in here. But it is exhausting for me. I am tired all the time. I am stressed out from this constant needing of these pups when I am going without myself. I am running on instincts and I am praying that my instincts are correct; else I will feel the power of that kick; the force of that anger; the isolation of that basement. I am fearful that everything I am doing is wrong.

And then they were gone.

I am alone. I am sitting on a cold concrete floor and there are many other unfamiliar sounds and sights around me.

I am afraid.

I want the human that was gentle and kind; I miss the little humans who braved their fear to give me attention. The kicking, chasing, unhappy human is better than this. I am in a cage. I don’t regret the past, and I don’t worry about the future. I am a dog, after all. Dogs don’t fret over the past or agonize over the future. We have our memories, of course. I remember how my mom adored me; I remember the fun and frivolity of my brothers and sisters; I remember the loving and kind humans. But, they are gone. And what is this?

I am alone with my fear.

One day I am picked up out of this place. I am taken in a moving thing to a place that is called New York. I hear the cage people call the human in the moving-thing “Molly”. I don’t know where I am going.

I am afraid.

And now I am sick. There is something wrong in my heart. I feel like I can’t breathe; like something is choking me. I hear the human things call it heartworm and speak about how I might die. I don’t know about dying. If it brings me back to that place with mom, it’s okay. I want to feel loved, and licked, and corrected, and playful, and safe.

I am afraid.

And now I am with humans called Cathy and Paul. They have to take care of me as I fight the heartworm. I am caged most of the time for my safety, but these humans come around to talk to me in a voice that is soothing and warm. They don’t have a basement, so I think I am safe. The Cathy one reminds me of my mom as she strokes me gently and tells me how good I am. I like her words. The Paul one is a little intimidating for me – he is a Man human and so I am afraid. But I feel some sort of gentle energy coming from him. One day he gets too close to me and I instinctively nip out like I’m supposed to. I immediately know I am wrong doing that; Cathy is not happy and Paul is devastated. Once again, I am confused. I don’t figure out that he doesn’t mean to hurt me like the Man did. I have to learn that there are good Humans in this place, like Cathy and Paul. I feel like I’ve come home again, to my mom. To where I am safe.

And so, they give me a new name: Molly Jo. I know the new name fits me. It is a name that speaks of hope and love and being safe again. Leave Sister behind with all her fears. Molly Jo, you belong.

And then we are on the move again.

I am afraid.

We are going across something called a border. We are going to Canada.

Cathy and Paul leave me with new humans called Jim and Brenda. I am so distressed as Cathy and Paul leave in the moving thing. I was almost there, back to mom, with the Cathy and Paul life. I can feel the energy that is coming from Cathy and Paul (in human-speak, they are “in tears”). I know they are kind and gentle. And so, why am I leaving them?

I am afraid.

Jim and Brenda are kind, and affectionate, and loving. They leave with me with my grief over Cathy and Paul. They don’t make me do things; they feed me and give me love and take me for walks. They know it is going to take some time for me to get used to yet another strange place with strange humans. They have a basement but it feels and smells differently than the basement of my tortured memory. There is no kicking; there is no yelling; there is no abuse. I have learned that Jim's basement holds music and comfort and warmth.

Brenda tells me that Cathy and Paul gave me to them because this is my forever home; and they have given me the very best thing. She said that what they gave me is their job and they have done a good job. I feel an energy again that speaks to me of full body rubs, just like my mom used to do. Cathy and Paul have done that for me and it is more than any dog could ever hope for, after my journey.

I am afraid but now I have hope.

I have been given a second chance.

I am a blue heeler. I am from Kentucky. I am a girl.

That makes me a Blue Kentucky Girl.

Blue is a supposedly a sad colour in the human world. But, Blue is a colour that defined my world and I am proud to have overcome the worst of it. And I feel grateful for those that looked beyond and saw that I could learn, that I could give and feel love, and be a good companion, and learn to live with the humans.

Thanks to them

I am no longer afraid.

I am a dog. My name is Molly Jo.

Everyone Deserves a Second Chance

“She was on death row. She sat in a cold shelter kennel, on the concrete floor, watching; waiting; as others were taking from their kennels and adopted. She never thought her day would come. And it wouldn't have, if it weren't for Black Dog Second Chance Rescue Organization. We absolutely love the cattle dog breed- they are often misunderstood- all they really want is to please their owners. And when their owners turn them into the scary shelter, they become confused. Molly was no exception. She was confused. And sick. She had heartworm.”

Those anonymous words tugged at my heart as I read them. I was cruising the internet to see if I could find a dog to replace the hole that Suzie left in Jim’s heart. Every time Jim looked at a dog since Suzie went to the Rainbow Bridge, I felt the heartfelt truth of the saying: Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.

And, so it was to be. A three-year old Australian Cattle Dog named Molly Jo (“Molly” for short). She came to the Black Dog Second Chance Rescue Organization (BDSC) in Amherst, New York, via Kentucky. She was in a “high kill” shelter when the BDSC rescued her. She was taken in by two loving foster parents and received all the medical treatment, love, and attention necessary for her to regain her health and her esteem.

However, the BDSC doesn’t allow dog adoptions outside a 45 minute radius of Buffalo. This is not bureaucracy or isolationism; this is to ensure that the dog remains within a radius where, if the adoption doesn’t work out for some reason, the new owner can return the dog safe into the arms of BDSC who will try again and again to find the dog a forever home that is just right.

Nevertheless, I thought I would take a chance. Taking a chance would be true to one of my life mottos, courtesy of the hockey-great Wayne Gretzky: “We miss 100% of the shots we never take.”

Fast forward and we were approved for a home visit, to ensure that Molly and we would feel comfortable with each other, and BDSC would feel comfortable that Molly was going to a good home. Molly’s foster parents even offered to make the two and a half hour trip to Toronto for the welcome visit! How very kind and generous we felt them to be.

At 11:00 this morning, a car drove up to the front of our house. Jim was so excited he was like a kid on Christmas morning. Up the walk came two of the most special people on earth, Cathy and Paul, Molly’s foster parents. Both of them were crying as they led Molly to our door. They had fallen so in love with the little girl dog that they were heartbroken to leave her. Hugs between virtual strangers were exchanged, in the spirit of love and kinship for a little dog who deserved a second chance in this life.

As I sit writing this, Molly is slowly becoming used to us, although she spends most of her time at the door waiting for Cathy and Paul to return. It will take her a few days to get used to us and to recognize that being in our home, where there are hearts full of love, is her blessed second chance. Less than eight hours later, she is giving Jim and I tentative kisses, proving truth in the wonderment: “Who knew that dog saliva could mend a broken heart?”

We are grateful to BDSC and to Cathy and Paul, angels on earth, for giving us a chance to show Molly that the world is a loving and safe place.

And to Molly, thank you for today. Thank you for starting to heal the wounds of a broken heart.