Ellie's Brain

Pretty much the day I touched down in the States– after a long flight from Amsterdam involving lots of spilled apple juice– I received a message from a housesitting app I occasionally use while traveling. The message was from a lady named Caitlin, and she wrote:

“Hi Ellie, I know this is a last minute request, but I was hoping you would consider a “staycation” in Richmond to housesit for my pocket-pittie, Ruthie. My previous sitter had a family emergency come up and can no longer make it. I can be flexible with dates as well if needed. Thanks!”

My immediate instinct upon reading that message was to say no. Richmond– though it holds a special place in my heart as my favorite home I’ve ever lived in– was not exactly on my list of destinations I wished to travel to. Plus, I had no interest in taking care of a dog that wasn’t my own. Previous housesits I’d completed (there have been two) consisted of three cats each, and that was perfect for me. I never had to worry about getting back so I could let a cat out to the bathroom; luckily for me, their bathroom is already in the home. With dogs, that’s never the case. 

However, before I made my quick response I was reminded of a question my mom’s friend, Gale, had asked me before I left the States a month prior. In a last-minute scramble to find accommodation for my beloved dog before I booked a very last-minute roundtrip flight to Norway, I made a hasty post in my community Facebook group to see if anyone would be willing to house my dog for a month—for free. 

To my delight and to many others’ shock, I had four people respond within the hour saying they’d be willing to help. Gale was amazed. 

“I can’t believe these people are willing to do this for free. They don’t even know you!” 

I too marveled at the kindness of these strangers, and yet I wasn’t too surprised. After all, I only made the post because a big part of me expected to get some responses. Later in the same evening, she asked me, “If the roles were reversed and you saw a post where someone was asking a stranger to house their dog for a month, would you do it?”

The correct answer is yes, although in truth, I don’t think I’d think twice about scrolling past that post. Taking care of one dog is hard enough, two is not something I feel I’m equipped for handling. I spent some time during my sophomore year of college petsitting a neighbor’s giant schnauzer, and it led into a very exhausting couple of days. It felt as if I spent each day either on a walk, or thinking about my next walk. My days went something like this:

Go next door, walk Izzy. Feed Izzy, feed the cat, walk back, walk Ozzie. Feed Ozzie, go to class, come back, walk Izzy…and so forth.

I had no intention of ever putting myself through that again, and it wasn’t long before I passed that petsitting gig off to one of my close friends. So when I mused over my answer to Gale’s question, in an effort to seem like a good person who did good deeds, I said I would truly consider taking on someone else’s dog only if the situation was perfect. As in, I lived somewhere that had a backyard, I didn’t have a job, etc., etc. And, I’d only be feeling inclined to do such a favor because someone else had just done it for me. Gale seemed satisfied with my answer, but I felt weird about the conversation afterwards. Even if the stars aligned, would I really do that for someone else? Truthfully, I wasn’t sure.

Fast forward to my landing in the States, and I’m now thinking about this conversation as I read Caitlin’s message. My own words float back to me as I read that she’s got a backyard. Plus, I’m unemployed. I hesitate for a while before typing back:

“Hi Caitlin! I’d love to help out, but wanted to see if it would be possible for me to bring my dog as well? I can’t really leave him for that long, but if your dog is happy to play with another one for that time period that’d be great! If not, totally understand :)”

I figured, if I couldn’t bring my dog, there was my easy out. Hey, I could at least say I tried! I silently applauded myself for this response. 

It wasn’t long before she responded that yes, I could bring my dog, and a few days later I found myself packing my bags and my dog to Richmond. 

~

Ruthie was adorable. She was indeed a “pocket-pittie,” complete with huge, seal puppy eyes, a tail that never stopped wagging, and an impressive knack for making strange, gremlin-like noises. When she sniffed at the ground, she made a soft, piglike sound. Her snore had such a strong baritone to it, it woke me up in the middle of the night. She loved to cuddle, and she would stare straight into my eyes as I played the guitar and sang. 

When she first met my dog Ozzie on the day my friend and I arrived to get the keys and officially take over our duties, she growled (in that friendly way that dogs do when they’re happy) and barked while snapping her little teeth like an alligator, running around in circles and getting up in everyone’s business. Ozzie, usually a powerhouse of energy himself, was nervously darting his eyes around and leaping over people’s legs in the small room to escape the jaws of Ruthie, snapping amicably at his heels. 

When Caitlin left and Grace left and I was alone with the two dogs, I found myself frozen on the couch staying as silent as possible, hoping that she would grow quiet and still. It took a few hours of playing the quiet game, but it eventually happened. At least, until Grace returned from meeting up with a friend and the cacophony of sounds and flurry of movement started back up again. I felt my blood pressure rise.

About two days into the housesit, Ruthie and Ozzie got into their first dogfight. Earlier that morning they were sharing the bed together, and later that afternoon I was standing in the backyard with the two of them, watching them run around and play. A moment later, they were snarling. I instantly ran to the two of them trying to break them up, but my efforts were in vain. I was frightened of Ruthie’s snapping jaws having not known her for very long, and in a moment of cowardice I felt myself watching the two dogs fight as if from very far away. This can’t be happening, I thought to myself as I tried again to separate the two dogs. My movements felt slow, as if I were in a big jar of peanut butter. 

Grace burst through the back door, ran down the steps, and instantly got them separated. I felt a surge of relief, followed by shame that I had been too afraid and incapable of doing it on my own. She stayed in the backyard holding onto Ruthie as I brought Ozzie indoors, and from the top of the steps I heard Grace’s words. “She’s bleeding.”

There were two more fights after that. Ozzie left all of these unscathed, missing nothing more than a few tufts of fur. Ruthie was left with shallow, bleeding wounds from his teeth marked up all across the side of one face, including one near her eye and one on her chin. Looking at them filled me with a feeling of such extreme sorrow and shame, I found it hard to meet her large eyes  without crying. 

~

It’s difficult to go into the backstory of Ozzie, as it feels impossible to compile a clear image of who he is without having met him and been around him during his best and worst moments. As his owner, I’ve had the immense privilege and misfortune of having seen every single one of them. 

I was there when we lived in Richmond, plodding along the streets of the Fan like we owned them, saying hello to all the people we knew and making people’s days simply because Ozzie was being Ozzie. He had a way of drawing people to them with his doe-eyes, happy roo’s, and as one cigarette-smoking lady rasped on her front porch, “He’s got such a sweet disposition.” 

Sometimes, I’d think of our walks as “making the rounds.” I’d memorized and mapped out the people we knew at every street, and choosing to walk a certain route was guaranteeing a conversation with any one of them. There was the house near the school that I deemed the  “Bachelor House,” because it seemed to have a never-ending, rotating group of men living there. Whenever we passed it, I’d often find at least two guys on the porch smoking a cigarette. Sometimes I recognized them, sometimes I didn’t.

Regardless, Ozzie loved every single man that passed through that home, and he always made sure we stopped for a visit. And whether the men on the porch knew him or not, they always welcomed it. It took me months before I realized it was a halfway house for people struggling with addiction, rather than a random house of single, middle-aged dudes partying it up together. 

One memorable afternoon, I passed by the house and saw just one guy on the porch. His face lit up upon seeing us, and he opened the door to call inside, “Ellie and Ozzie are here!” Within moments, a parade of men came pouring out the door, all to dole out their affections to my dog. “We gotta get treats for him,” one of them said as he rubbed Ozzie’s ear. Another came out toting a bowl of water. That house became our favorite one on the block, and I relished every single porch passing. 

One evening, we walked past the Bachelor House, and by routine I dropped the leash so Ozzie could bound up the steps and receive his hearty pets and rubs from the three men sitting on the porch. In one hand they held a lit cigarette, and in the other they massaged his back. In a moment of utter serenity, I relaxed into watching my dog delight in their affection towards him. 

Suddenly, I saw his head dart up. In the same instant, I noticed a couple walking their two dogs past the porch, and I felt my stomach twist in horror. 

“OZZIE NO!” I yelled as he leapt away from the guys’ hands, darted past my own outstretched arms as I tried to catch his harness, and flew into a frenzied attack on the two dogs passing by. By the time I was able to grab him, I was breathless with panic, and I looked up to meet the couples’ faces. They were looking at me and my dog with a mixture of fear, disgust, and horror. They said something that hurt—something I can no longer remember as it’s mixed and melted with every other horrible instance that’s happened. I walked back to the porch feeling shamed and embarrassed.

What I do remember though, is the men on the porch’s kindness. They looked at me, shaken up and on the verge of tears, and immediately got to work cheering me up. 

“Their dogs’ fault,” one of them said, and against my own better judgement, I let out a strangled laugh. 

“Ozzie kicked their ass,”  another said, and he smiled down at my dog, clearly unruffled by the fight. I was warmed by their attempts to make me feel better, but the damage was done. It slotted away in my brain as yet another moment where I had failed as an owner. 

That was years ago. More recently last year, I lived on a farm, and witnessed Ozzie’s graduation from attacking dogs, to people. He bit my manager’s elderly dad, followed by my other manager’s mom. He bit a young woman when she came inside to use the house bathroom, and made a valiant effort towards biting many, many more. It reached a point where I felt awash in a state of constant paranoia. Every time I let my guard down, someone got hurt. 

We no longer made our rounds around our new neighborhood to greet friendly faces. Instead, I avoided seeing people on our walks. When we did, I was instantly afraid for them. Ozzie, sensing my fear, mistook it as me being afraid of them. Being the loyal dog that he is, he made sure they never got closer.  

As I sank into feelings of despair and hopelessness, I decided to spend $295 on a behavior consultation with a recommended dog trainer in the area. 

Upon meeting Elise, I immediately felt at ease with her dry voice and calm manner. She listened patiently and asked questions as I frantically described all the bites, the reactive behavior, and the sudden switch-up from his days of being called a dog with a “sweet disposition.” She watched attentively as Ozzie gnawed on a bone she gave him, and even more so as he perked up and listened to the other dogs in their boarding facility let out a chorus of barks as they were released outside.

I finished talking, and she told me calmly that from the stories I’d told her and from what she’d observed in Ozzie, he was not an innately aggressive dog. Everything he did was fear-based, and she mentioned how he appeared to have a very “soft” personality. He flinched easily, was gentle and sweet with those he loved, and frequently exhibited submissive behavior. She explained to me how I should go about training him moving forward, and handed me a hefty packet detailing out all the steps. Then she sent us on our way. 

The farm season ended in late November, and I moved back home. I flitted between odd adventures and moves for a while, but when my latest job in Philly ended I moved back home again. As I approached month four of being unemployed and sending out fruitless applications, I decided enough, and found my way over to Norway for a month. Less than a week after returning home, I was at Ruthie’s. During all that time, “something horrible” never happened. I never left the house without being armed with a treat distraction, and I tightened the leash whenever we walked past people. I learned to not fall into pieces every time he reacted to somebody in an aggressive manner. I built my trust back up in him, believing that he was the kind of dog that could attract people from all walks of life, filling strangers’ lives with love and happiness rather than fear. There were definite scares, but nothing happened to make me doubt the idea that things were different this year, and I would never again have to experience the distress (and the many, many stress-hives) that came along with last year’s incidents.

A man who was afraid of dogs told me he wasn’t afraid of Ozzie because of how gentle and kind he was. Another friend of a friend told me that Ozzie was the best dog he’d ever met. Strangers on the street complimented me on having such a well-behaved dog, and I glowed with pride. When I lost the hefty training pack that Elise had given me, I didn’t bother to look for it. The worst was behind us, finally.

Then, the thing with Ruthie happened. It was everything I’d been afraid of, and I felt myself shrink back into my paranoia. How could I have let this happen? What could I have done to stop it? I sobbed inconsolably for many nights in a row, letting myself be squeezed and held by my best friends. 

On the first night I broke down into uncontrollable sobs, Grace held me and softly told me she felt I had three options:

The first one was to keep things the way they were; to live in constant stress and fear that “something horrible” was going to happen again, and collapse into hysteria when it did. We both agreed that was not a good option.

The second option was to drop two or three grand on a dog trainer, something I had toyed with the idea of many times in the past. She told me if I decided to go the route of getting an expensive trainer, she’d help me out with the cost and she was sure my parents would too. But the cost was only half of it. I knew from all the trainers I’d already met with, the essays I’d read, and the many videos I’d watched online that the training never ends. Once you begin the process, you never finish it.

Throughout this whole process, I’d become as fearful and reactive as Ozzie. I knew I needed to be relaxed in order for Ozzie to do the same, but letting my guard down felt like an invitation for something bad to happen. When people told me I had a lovely, sweet dog, I felt like a fraud. I went on a hike and ran into an elderly group who cooed and fawned over Ozzie, praising his gentle mannerisms. Unnecessarily, I blurted out that he’s not always like that, worried that they were not seeing the full picture. 

“HE SCARES PEOPLE!” I wanted to scream. “HE’S BITTEN PEOPLE!”

They continued with their cooing, unable to picture a sweet dog like him doing bad things.

~

“The third option is to rehome Ozzie,” Grace said, and my heart broke.

Ozzie has always felt like so much more than a pet to me; he’s a roommate, a companion, a shoulder to lean on, a best friend. He’s brought people into my life just by being him, and he’s made dark moments infinitely more bearable. He is joyful without any real reason, and forgiving to a fault.

It would be a lie to say that Ozzie hasn’t made my life more difficult in many, many ways. As someone who’s always craving a change of pace, whether it be a new job, a new move, or a sailboat in Florida, Ozzie’s got no choice but to come along for the ride. Pet-friendly accommodation is the thing I seek out before anything else, because if I can’t have that then there’s no point pursuing something further. It’s Ozzie or nothing, and I’ve always chosen him first.

But when Grace first named option number three, I allowed myself to think about a life where I didn’t need to choose between me and my dog every time. A life where I no longer have to slim down my opportunities by making sure they were pet-friendly, and I don’t need to book roundtrip tickets just so I could make it home to be with my dog again. It was as if I were getting a fresh lease on life. 

Before all this, before Ruthie and Norway and option number three, I was convinced that I wanted to settle down somewhere. In a clean, walkable city with plenty of green spaces for Ozzie and I to enjoy, and I’d get a job that paid well but didn’t take me away from him for too many hours of the day. Once a year, I’d allow myself to book a roundtrip ticket and fly out of the country to explore a new place for a month. To taste new foods and hear different languages and accents and fill my head with rich experiences I’d never forget. Then I’d come back home, satisfied with my month abroad, happy to return back to my home and my job and my dog. And that would be that…and I could be satisfied with that.

But in imagining my life without Ozzie, I’m not doing any of that. I’m far, far away from North America, living out of my backpack, booking one-way tickets, and staying in new countries for three months at minimum. I’m learning new languages, making friends across the world, and not missing out on opportunities simply because they aren’t “pet-friendly.” I’m talking to strangers whenever I can, not avoiding them because I’m worried my dog isn’t going to like their loping gait. 

I count myself lucky that my only real tether has always been Ozzie. As loyal as any other dog, he’ll follow me blindly into any situation I take him to, with nothing more than a happy wag. He trusts me to make the best decisions for both of us, and for the most part, I’m proud to think that I always have. It was only fair to always include him when dreaming up our next adventures. Will this new place have woods for him to be free-roaming in? Is the accommodation comfortable enough for him? Will he enjoy walks in this area? Are there too many dogs in the area? Not enough dogs? Will he like the people? On, and on, and on. Having had him for five years, taking Ozzie’s best interests into account became a natural way of thinking. I never considered life without Ozzie, so I didn’t imagine what it could look like. 

Once, not long ago, when I was living at home and in the midst of another mind-numbing job hunt, my mom casually mentioned that if I didn’t have Ozzie, I’d probably be in another country right now. I laughed and agreed, immediately knowing it to be true, but didn’t put any more thought into what that meant beyond the simple fact of the matter. 

How do you know when something you love so much is holding you back from living the life you have imagined? I guess you start by imagining your life without them, and therein lies your answer. 

~ 

Yesterday was the big day. I spent many of the days leading up to it feeling a bit sick to my stomach and moping around, crying sporadically. People were kind to me, and my favorite response when I told them of my decision to rehome Ozzie was to ask me, “Where will you go first?” They seemed to understand that it was important to look ahead, and not behind. When I first FaceTimed with Ozzie’s new owners, they told me they thought I was courageous for making this decision to pursue my dreams, and I almost cried again. They told me they could tell how much I loved him, and even more so how special he was. And they couldn’t wait to have him join their family. 

We decided to meet up in Breezewood, Pennsylvania, in the back of Bob Evans parking lot. They were in the area visiting family for Christmas, and we figured this was the best time to meet before they began their long drive home to Kentucky. 

On the morning of, I did my best to capture the memory of Ozzie bounding up to me as we ran in the empty soccer field behind my house one last time. I tried not to take it as a sign when he hesitated at the doorway of the garage before getting in the car. I cried when I saw texts from my best friends roll in, wishing Ozzie and I love on what they knew to be a very difficult day. I cried again, telling Ozzie how much I loved him as he rested his head on the shoulder pad of my seat, the same way he’s done a million other times I’ve taken on the road with him. I felt the soft puffs of his breath close to my cheek.

The meetup went better than anything I could’ve ever imagined. It was a family of six; a couple, their three kids, and a dog. When Ozzie and Flynn saw each other for the first time, I believed in soulmates. They took to each other instantly, chasing each other around trees and racing a little too close to the electric cow fence. They ended up getting a little too rowdy so the dad brought Flynn back into the car, and he promptly popped his head out the window and began whimpering at Ozzie in a high-pitched crescendo. Ozzie stared back, lovestruck, and began a chorus of happy howls. I fought back another round of tears, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that I had made the right choice; Ozzie was now with his new clan, and it was time to look forward.

As I drove home, I received a message from the mom. She’d texted me a picture of the two dogs poking their head out the window; Ozzie carrying the derpiest, largest grin across his face. She captioned it, “Smiling for you!!!!” 

There’s a book I grew up with that I always loved my mom to read to me, titled “Guardians of the Being.” It’s a sweet little picture book, filled with simple cartoons of animals being mindful and loving life, along with all the creatures that inhabit it. I used to leverage that book to my mom as a reason why we should get a dog. 

“It would be our zen teacher! Our guardian of the being!” I’d shout passionately. She’d just laugh me off.

Many years later, my mom finally relented and allowed me to get a dog of my very own. I named him Ozzie because I thought the name sounded cool, and because when I searched up the meaning of it, many sources told me it meant “Divine strength/power/ruler.” Even cooler.

However, the best part of it all was that one day, while flipping through my old beloved picture book, I discovered that one of the main cartoon characters in the book was a man called ‘Ozzie.’ He and his dog ‘Earl’ frequented the pages with their many escapades and shows of affection towards one another. There was one page I remembered in particular, and when I recently opened the book to go hunting for it, I happened to open it at exactly the right spot. The scene goes a little something like this:

Ozzie and Earl are on a stroll together. Earl trots ahead and says,“I’m NEVER off leash with my Ozzie…”

He leaves Ozzie behind and takes off running at a full leap, chasing the falling leaves. 

He then stops, waiting for his person to catch up and looks back at him with love, tail wagging.

“Our hearts are connected.”

Acknowledgements:

One of my favorite parts about reading any book is the “Acknowledgements” section at the end. Though this isn’t a book and I’m not an author, the story of Ozzie is an incredibly long one, and it feels wrong to end it without acknowledging the people who have been such a major part of our journey.

To my friends, for going on adventures with Ozzie and I, and for seeing us through all our worst and best moments together. Through backpacking trips, road-trips, nights in the Fan, and everything in between. Thank you to Gwyn for breaking into my apartment to walk Ozzie while I was at work, and for turning our duo into a trio throughout all our adventures together. Thank you to Grace for making us into a proper family at Plum, for walking him when my rating was lower, and for making up ridiculous songs with me about Ozzie. Thank you to Megan for seeing me through the very worst of it at the farm, for loving Ozzie despite it all, and for assuring me that I’m not crazy. Thank you to every friend who has ever listened to me and given me advice as I went through this journey, and for loving Ozzie like your own. Your support means the world to me.

To my parents, but most specifically my mom. Without you, I would never have gotten the opportunity to live out my dreams of having a dog of my own. Thank you for taking care of him while I was in my first year of college, again when I went to Australia, and for all the little snippets in between. You’ve enriched Ozzie’s life with your care, delicious homemade food, and copious amounts of coconut oil.

To every stranger who has ever stopped to give Ozzie a little bit of love, and especially to all those people on their porches. To the men at the Bachelor House, for being the best guys around.

To everyone who has been unduly gracious to me after my dog tried to bite them, actually bit them, or bit their elderly parent. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve your kindness, but I am so grateful.

To Ozzie’s new family, for giving him what I’m sure is to be his dream life, showering him with love, and continuing to take him on adventures.

And to Ozzie, for being a girl’s best friend. A piece of you is with me wherever I go.