Diagnosis: My dog and I are big fat chickens

Merry Christmas from Molly

 Self diagnosing has gone to the dogs. My dog, Molly, has PTSD. Since this past 4th of July, Molly has decided fireworks = bad, home = good. So, with the many celebrations that occur in our neighborhood, we pick and choose the more mellow ones in which to bring our dog.

It had been a long day. Steve and I just wanted a laid-back activity. So this past weekend we brought Molly along to the Holiday Parade of Boats. Local fishermen, tugs, ferries, and sailors all adorn their masts and rigging with lights and cruise up and down the harbor for all to enjoy. Being our third year observing this spectacle, we know it to be in the mellow column. We watch from half-way between the harbor and the street, away from any engine noise. It was twilight, and we positioned ourselves at the railing in front of Fort Allen relishing the warm temps with our dog by our side. Soon after the parade ended we took her off-leash so she could romp. Within seconds the cannons boomed. Tugboat horns blasted. And, yes, fireworks shot up towards us from the harbor. Apparently someone acquired more funds this time around.

It was now pitch dark, and by the second tug blast, I could just make out my dog’s outline at the top of the hill where the sidewalk starts. Tail out behind her in fine racing form, Molly was gone. Steve took the hill as fast as two legs could go, but our dog was gone gone gone. I called home to ask my daughter to check for Molly who had apparently already made it to the front door. You need to understand, it takes my dog an hour of stretching and deep consideration after I suggest a walk in the first place. Had I known my lazy 11-year-old dog could run so fast I may have signed her up for the Dog Olympics (Yes, this is a thing).

Now, if I had to diagnose myself, my disorder may be FOPD (Fear of Publishers Disorder) or more specifically, FORD (Fear Of Rejection Disorder). When I see a response in my email from a publisher, I often wait hours, if not days to open the letter. Like my dog, I flee, tail out behind me, and head anywhere away from impending doom. Is this normal? I can’t imagine Carl Hiaasen or Barbara Kingsolver ever behaved this way.

After the phone call, knowing Molly was safe, I had to laugh. I imagined myself bolting to the land without email. Did I pick a dog like me, or did I pick a dog and give her my neuroses? Perhaps something else to diagnose?

What’s your disorder?

This entry was posted in general and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

12 Responses to Diagnosis: My dog and I are big fat chickens

  1. Deb says:

    Hah – brings back scary memories!

    Molly looks sweet in her Santa hat.

  2. Barb says:

    Funny Story Sally!

  3. Martha says:

    My diagnosis is post traumatic bleacher syndrome (a result of events experienced during youth athletics and town meetings
    As for my dog Zoe, she has post traumatic Molly syndrome!

    • Sally Sally says:

      Yes, Martha, Those bleachers are like crinkly white paper at a doctor’s office…Scary! And I had forgotten about our joint dog incident several years ago. Poor Zoe!

  4. HDT says:

    I’m so happy Molly’s home and safe. All the best to you and your family, as always. Love to read our writing.

  5. Trudy Cohen says:

    I’m glad Molly made it home safely. Dogs (and cats) rule our lives with furry paws. It happens gradually; they train us over time. I’ve been known to say:
    “I can’t stay long, I have to walk the dog (Pierre).”
    “I can’t have lunch, Pierre goes to the groomer today.”
    “Stop barking at me, Pierre, I’m getting your food right now.”
    “It’s 3.30 A.M., you have to go out now?”

  6. HDT says:

    Happy Christmas and Merry Holidays. To you, your husband, your son, your daughter, your dog, and anyone else you hold dear. I hope your day is filled with hot cocoa, marshmallows, Christmas Tree Cakes, card games, sledding, and The Bruins. All my best always.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.