What Our Dog’s Debilitating Injury Taught Me about Vulnerability
It will be five years to the day on Oct. 11 that I met my life partner on my second-ever Tinder date. At first, it didn’t seem like it would work out. He was a diehard dog person, you see, while I was on my way to being a crazy middle-aged cat lady.
On our second date, he brought his two dogs to walk on the beach with us — his own version of a vetting system for a prospective mate.
What I didn’t know on that leisurely Sunday afternoon was that meeting— in which I first became acquainted with an excitable German Shorthaired Pointer (GSP) called Atlas — was going to one day help us navigate troubled waters by teaching us a valuable lesson in vulnerability.
Atlas was four years old at the time, a brown bundle of energy who was a little crazy and not immediately my favorite. The other dog, five-year-old Astro, was a majestic and calm Rhodesian Ridgeback who was generally shy around humans, but won my heart quickly by letting me pet him within the first hour we met.
Until then, I considered myself someone who liked dogs, but was more of a cat person. I preferred the independence of cats as pets, and was the proud owner of two. But rather quickly, I had to blend our dog and cat family together, and we all managed to coexist as the relationship between my partner and I grew.
One of my cats was killed by a stray dog about a year into our union, and then the beautiful Astro sadly died two years later to Leishmaniosis. That left us for a time with just one canine in the family in addition to Fogo, my fiercely independent male cat who came and went as he pleased and lived part-time at various neighbors’ houses.
By then I’d come to know Atlas better, and understand the affection, humorous personality, intelligence and energy for which GSPs are well known. Like most GSPs, Atlas acted like a human in dog form, always wanting to hang out with his people, taking over couches and beds with no apology, and showing his approval or annoyance about things with hilarious facial expressions.
He and my partner adore each other in a way that only true dog lovers can understand. So close is their connection, they seem like soulmates, and I sometimes feel like I’m second fiddle around the place.
That’s mostly OK with me, because I also have developed a fierce love for Atlas in the five years I’ve been his mom. He was the first dog that ever made me understand the unique and almost divine bond between humans and their four-legged best friends. And he helped me learn how both showing and overcoming weakness can be a superpower.
The Accident
Nearly a year after Astro died, Atlas had one of his back legs completely smashed in an unfortunate accident, the details of which we will never really know because neither of us was there when it happened.
Like many active dogs being raised in the countryside, he liked to roam free, and would find ways to escape the small plot of land where my boyfriend lives to visit neighbors and other canine friends.
In his seven years of life until then, he’d developed street smarts that always kept him safe, even though my partner’s house is set on a well-traveled road that passes between two fairly large towns for our sleepy part of Portugal.
His luck ran out on a late spring day in 2019 when my boyfriend came home and found him whimpering and crying, the bone of one of his back legs completely shattered. It was heartbreaking; until then he’d exhibited not just the best sweet and inquisitive GSP characteristics, but also was a beautiful physical example of the breed — agile, athletic and strong.
GSPs are notoriously active, and Atlas was and still is, no different. He rarely walks; his slowest speed is the equivalent to a human skip, though more often he bounds from place to place, even if only covering a short distance.
Losing a back leg seemed like the worst fate that could ever befall such a dog, especially — since GSPs live to be about 14 — when he still had half of his life in front of him. Though a veterinary surgeon who specializes in this type of repair performed three surgeries, Atlas never regained complete use of his damaged leg.
The recovery was painful, but he took it like a trooper. Though he would occasionally put on a dramatically long face, he rarely cried about his fate, maintaining that unbridled optimism for which GSPs are known even on his worst and most painful recovery days.
Vulnerability as Strength
As it became clear to him that he could barely use one of his back legs, Atlas slowly adapted to his new reality. He has carried on his active life as more or less a three-legged dog, albeit slowing down a bit and being more cautious around other dogs he meets.
His injured leg dangles more or less useless, a bit shorter than the other legs, put down on the ground only when Atlas —notorious for being a canine Casanova — wants to impress a new lady friend that he’s just met.
Despite his injury, Atlas still moves about quickly and loves longs walks, and he continues to roam the countryside to visit his friends, though not quite as much as he used to.
He still maintains his overall optimism for life and enthusiasm for his pack, to which my dog Cookie — a young rescue of undetermined breed with a generally lazy demeanor — was added two years ago.
And somehow, since his accident, my partner and I have come to love Atlas even more deeply, though it hardly seems possible.
Because before, when he was whole, Atlas could sometimes be a bit TOO much. Too energetic. Too enthusiastic, especially first thing in the morning before I’d had my coffee. Too needy and affectionate.
He would sometimes be so excited to see us he would throw himself at us, inadvertently landing a paw in a sensitive place and causing pain and annoyance. His tendency to escape and wander the neighborhood on his own would stress me out, as I would worry like an anxious mother until he returned home unscathed.
His accident didn’t just change his physical demeanor, but also his character — but not necessarily in a bad way. It slowed and calmed him down, making him more likely to cuddle and stay close to home. It made him more vulnerable, and thus I became overall more protective of him.
Seeing how he adapted to what basically amounted to the loss of a leg also showed a resilience in this wonderful animal that made him even more inherently lovable.
Our Canine Teacher
Atlas’ vulnerability became a huge lesson for me, someone who many men also thought was “a bit much” for many years before I met my strong, kind and steady partner. But it wasn’t smooth sailing for us over our first few years, either.
I was a tough bitch for a long time, one of those women who thought I could handle everything myself and didn’t need anyone’s help or love to get me through life. While I wasn’t afraid to wear my heart on my sleeve, I had a hard time showing real emotional vulnerability when it came time to get really close to someone.
At the same time, I had anxious attachment issues, so when I fell for someone — I fell hard. My love was misguided, intense and smothering, and it often drove men away. A “friend” once described me as someone who was “bad” at relationships, and though I was offended, I had to admit that for a long time she was right.
I alternated between desperately clinging to partners and exhibiting a tough exterior that was emotionally hard for men to take. Instead of being loving and kind, I criticized them endlessly as a defense mechanism to hide the sad little girl inside of me who desperately wanted to be loved but didn’t know how.
This bi-polar approach to finding love — combined with the unexpected death of my mother in my early 30s followed by the most intense heartbreak of my life — led me to experience a full-blown nervous breakdown when I was 34.
After I got myself and my shit together and moved to Portugal, I found that the protective shell was back and a permanent aloof demeanor characterized my interactions with most people.
Uprooting myself from New York City to rural Portugal was no easy task that required help, and I often found myself having a difficult time asking for it — though eventually it became necessary.
I also was single well into my 40s, which made me feel like an alien, especially in a relatively conservative southern European country like Portugal where women still tend to partner up and have children quite young.
When I met my partner and his dogs, I felt I was ready for love. But even the early years of our relationship were stormy, as I fell back into my old patterns. In fact, we were actually “on a break” instigated by my partner at the time of Atlas’ accident, which in its own way brought us back together.
A New Way to Love
Seeing our dog’s vulnerability softened both of us and allowed us to open our hearts to each other in a way we hadn’t before.
At his request, I helped my partner care for Atlas after his accident, staying with him as he healed when my partner couldn’t because of work. My willingness to put the pain of our relationship wounds aside to help what had become “our” dog allowed him see a tenderness and loyalty in me he hadn’t seen before. It helped him overcome his lack of trust in women (i.e., me) due to unresolved abandonment issues that stemmed from his relationship with his mother.
Atlas’ accident also made us both realize how fragile life is. A single moment can irrevocably change or even take any creature’s life, including one of ours. This realization made us focus less on our differences and more on the genuine love, affection and bond between us.
As the stitches from Atlas’ multiple surgeries slowly healed and he began to find a new way to live, so my partner and I slowly found our way back to each other and discovered a new way to love.
It took both of us changing for this to happen. And for me, the change was rooted in some important lessons on vulnerability that our dog taught me.
Only by being vulnerable could I shift what needed to move inside of me, softening edges that had been hardened by my own history of anxiety and the trauma of past relationships.
Only by showing weakness and being honest about finding ways to overcome it rather than pretending it isn’t there could I allow someone else to love the parts of me that I myself struggled to accept.
It’s been more than two years since his accident and Atlas lies snoozing on a cushion at my feet as I write this, sometimes reflexively kicking both legs out as he dreams of the days when he was whole. He is blissfully unaware of how his injury was a karmic gift to our humble little family, a mixed blessing for which I am eternally grateful.