Somatic Practice Changed My Relationship to My Reactive Dog
Somatics in Everyday Life Series
In this mini-series, I’m using personal examples to demystify somatics and translate the power of somatic practice into everyday life.
My therapist recommended I get a dog as a strategy to manage my anxiety and depression. Exercise, she said, is key to coping with depression.
I imagined long, fall hikes in the woods. Stand-up paddleboarding, my cute dog in a little life jacket, me sun-kissed and soaking up the beauty of Oregon’s summers. Walks to the food carts with friends and me and my pup, hanging out in my garden, greeting neighbors and making friends.
What I got was Otto, the “best worst dog in the world.” He is literally a mix of the most anxious, tenacious, hypervigilant, and untrainable dogs to grace this earth.
He is a lover in the sheets and a fighter in the streets. His list of hates and hell-no’s includes, but is not limited to: any other animal with fur and four legs, skateboards, the beach, garbage trucks, motorcycles, and tall men with hats.
Needless to say, my best furry friend fantasy was a complete and utter fail.
Walking Otto became a highly orchestrated battle plan. Instead of being a boon to my mental health, Otto became a chore I had to tackle. In these stressful events, I also became hypervigilant, my nervous system on high alert; I was constantly on the lookout for other dogs, running explanations in my head, always preparing for what I was going to say when Otto lunged or barked madly at the dog behind the fence, across the street, or a block away.
The vet offered training resources and medication for Otto to curb some of his fear aggression and reduce the cortisol pinging his brain. However, his improvement was marginal, and the recommendations from the trainers often felt all-consuming – the message I received was that if I wanted Otto to get better, I had to center my life around his, making big, difficult adjustments to daily life that, between my ADHD, chronic pain, and depression, felt insurmountable.
For at least two years, I was utterly derailed and dismayed.
Until one day, on another stressful walk, frustrated and on the verge of tears, I paused. I used a centering practice – a foundational practice in my lineage of politicized somatics. The practice invites us to feel our body in four dimensions – our length, width, depth, and what we care about – not to override negative experiences or hard moments, but to build more capacity to choose the action we want to take next.
The centering practice helped me move from feeling annoyed and thinking I needed to rehome Otto to feeling myself and the little gremlin at the end of the leash.
I started to feel the world around me.
I felt the sun on my skin. I noticed the smell of warm pine sap, the birds singing, Otto’s curious sniffing, and excitement about being outside in the world. For brief moments when there were no other four-leggeds around, he was the dog I wished for – calm, curious, and connected to me.
The next day I took Otto on another walk, and within the first five minutes, I did another centering practice. I took deep breaths and allowed the beauty of my neighborhood to move me emotionally. Instead of tugging Otto forward so I could get exercise, I noticed what he was smelling and brought my human senses to the exploration. Wonder and awe started to pop up in my body – I noticed my vision get a little wider, my mood started to shift – was that joy I was feeling? Could that be possible?
So I continued to experiment with centering at the beginning of every walk. And the change was remarkable. Not for Otto – he’s still a tiny devil with a cute collar and no common sense – but for me.
Five years later, I don’t walk my dog. I take my dog on a soma walk. I don’t worry about getting exercise or moving at a certain pace. I’m not overly concerned with Otto’s barking, lunging, or fur-on-fur violent tendencies, although I do take appropriate precautions to keep him and other animals safe. Instead, I feel my body while Otto takes in the world, and more often than not, I feel more alive and connected to myself than when I left the house.
It’s not always easy, and I still get frustrated and feel overwhelmed. When my pain or anxiety is spiking, I might choose not to walk him that day. Still, when we do head outside, it starts with a centering practice so that I can feel a bigger range of emotions, experiences, and connection to the best worst dog in the world, and all the possibilities around us.
