The other day, I needed a pick-me-up, so I went to “dog hill”, a long gently sloping area in a park near where I live, to watch the dogs play.
There’s something comforting about dogs. Don’t know what it is exactly, all I do know is that it makes me smile when I see them interact with other dogs and their humans. What does this have to do with alcoholism, you ask? I’m getting to that.
When I see dogs – especially Beagles — memories come to me about the dog I had when I was drinking. She was very special, and our relationship exemplifies just how desperate addicted people can be for connection. And to what extremes I went to “punish” myself for being addicted.
When we can’t explain or understand, we blame ourselves.
I loathed and blamed myself for alcoholism, and I put myself through agony because of the belief that I was indeed to blame. On example is the situation surrounding my dog, ‘Baby’.
She was a tri-colored Beagle. We got her when she was just a puppy. Our children were eight, five, and four. One day while leaving the kid’s elementary school, we encountered a friend with a puppy.
The backstory is that my husband and I had just made a difficult downsizing move to a smaller house for financial reasons, and we were all trying to adjust. Maybe a puppy for the new house would be just the ticket.
I know all puppies are cute, but Beagle puppies — they’re some of the most irresistible of the puppy kingdom. And there was a whole litter of them for free!
Beagle puppies are the cutest!
Well, it wouldn’t hurt to look, would it? Now you know very well the rest of this story, don’t you?
Baby was a wonderful dog with our kiddos. She was cute and cuddly at first, like all puppies, and the kids couldn’t get enough of her. She was smart, and house trained quickly. And best of all, she was patient, predictable, and even-tempered with young children, even when they dressed her up, grabbed her in the wrong places, and pulled her around in a wagon. Never a growl or a snap came from our Baby. Yes, she became a gentle and integral part of our family, as dogs often do.
Eventually, however, the novelty wore off, and she became my dog. That was fine. I had wanted her as much as the kids had, and Baby gave me something I find difficult to explain; a tiny part of a need was filled which requires a living creature, I guess. A steady, predictable, unconditional love when I needed it most.
And the more I drank, the more I needed her. There were times when I felt like she was the only support I had, frankly. The more I drank, and tried to hide it – but didn’t very well – the more I retreated into a dysfunctional cocoon, which often only included me and her.
Baby didn’t judge me, or remember the last bad drunk, or threaten to leave me if I didn’t stop.
I remember laying on the bathroom floor many times, after throwing up all night from drinking, and Baby would use her nose to push open the door and come in to lay beside me. She’d lick my face then plop down heavily. (By this time, she was advanced middle-aged and had the Beagle’s propensity to become almost as wide as she was long.) But there was something so necessary and satisfying about her heavy sigh in my ear, as she made herself comfortable beside me.
There was something reassuring about her presence. No matter what I’d done — drinking after promising not to, hiding it, manipulating people, getting “drunk mouth” and starting arguments, or getting obnoxiously emotional, even with (I’m sure) intolerable liquor breath – she was there. And I was still okay to her; I was acceptable right there as I lay, half-drunk. I needed that, for I was not acceptable to anyone else – especially to myself.
When my husband and children were justifiably too disgusted to be with me, there was Baby, between my feet, at the foot of the bed, every single night for so many years.
I loved her ears; Beagles have ears like warm velvet.
After divorcing, I took Baby with me. She was 13 or so, very heavy, incontinent, arthritic, and now uncharacteristically cantankerous, especially towards active children. That was problematic.
At the time, I was drinking a lot and sort of couch surfing. I was also self-employed, and my work required frequent travel. There wasn’t a great deal of stability, and having a geriatric dog was not ideal. I felt I had few options, so I decided to put her down.
Each time I got her into the car and started in the direction of the vet’s office, she would put her head out of the window (she loved riding in the car), her ears “flying” in the wind. She looked so happy. I just couldn’t do it to her, so I’d keep her a while longer.
But then, I would have to travel again and would convince someone to keep her for me. It was a challenge. She growled or snapped at the neighbor kid. Or she got into a fracas with another dog. No one wanted to contend with an old, cranky, incontinent, over-weight dog.
I made the appointment several times before actually going through with it.
The truth is that her owner didn’t want to contend with her anymore either. I had become so focused on staying drunk, I’d not only chosen alcohol over my marriage and family, but I had chosen it over my unconditional best friend. Nothing was more important to me than what I got from alcohol. And that was the sad truth.
Heavily burdened with this realization, I did it. I put my ‘Baby’ down.
I made the decision alone. And I said good-bye to her alone. I cried for a long time in the car that day, watching my tears drip onto her velvety ears, and she comforted me even then, until the very end, unaware of what was to come.
I did this excruciating act alone, because I believed that I was too terrible a person, because I could not stop drinking. I am crying now just typing this, it was so difficult.
Looking into her droopy brown eyes, I apologized to a dog for what I was – for not being strong enough to keep her alive until she was ready to die – because I couldn’t stop drinking, and I believed that that made me an awful person.
The actual event was surprisingly quick, easy, and humane for her; so I tell myself. And I did get help digging a hole from a friend. She was buried on the shady bank of a lovely brook with dog biscuits.
What’s the point in this now? Where’s the lesson?
While this makes for something of a heart-warming story, I suppose, considering how much comfort she gave me; and considering that she did live a long, full, and happy life; and considering I’m now sober and fully recovered from alcoholism. Seems to be a happy ending, right? So why am I going into all this now?
Because it exemplifies something really damaging and dysfunctional that we do to ourselves because we truly believe there’s something so wrong with us for being addicted to an addictive substance. We punish ourselves in unimaginably difficult ways, because we feel like we truly deserve it. And all the suffering we’re experiencing is the price we must pay to get the comfort we need from alcohol.
But we don’t deserve it. I didn’t deserve this, or anything else I put myself through, and neither do you. You do deserve to learn more about why you do what you do, and how to help yourself when no one else can.
This is courage, my friend, and this is what “Baby” taught me. This is resilience. And, if you are addicted to alcohol, this is what you are – courageous, resilient, strong, normal, and misunderstood. But close to the end of it, if you want to be. Let me guide you out of the hell in your head; it’s easier than you think when you know what’s going on in there.
Dogs still bring me joy. There is joy in sobriety, I promise. And the good thing? You’ll remember it tomorrow.
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