One day my father came home with an adorable twelve week young German Shepherd.  My sister and I were so excited to have this new friend.  My father was enthralled with the dog, too. Within minutes of holding and petting the female puppy, we named it Babe.  My mother, taking all this in from a distance, was luke warm towards the pup.

I fell in love with Babe almost instantaneously.  She was my best friend.  We had a bucket of water in the yard so Babe could have full access for her hydration.  While she was so young she’d crawl into the bucket of water and blow bubbles in the water.  When she felt like getting out of the water, she’d climb out and shake her wet fur.  She was so much fun.

As Babe grew-up to be an adult canine, bad things happened.  I, at the age of nine, knew that the dynamics of my parents was way out of whack.  My father, who suffered with low-grade depression, had brought the puppy home without having told my mom anything about this.  Clearly he knew that mom was afraid of dogs.  He knew she had tremendous anxiety problems, much of which was for me, my sister, and dad a no win situation.  Basically, he went with his passive aggressive hostility, full bore, toward his wife.

By the time Babe reached adulthood, she was a protective dog for our family and, at times, a formidable force toward some adults, usually the mail carrier and the UPS delivery people, who were in uniform.  Then she’d bark and snarl and show off her formidable sharp large teeth and her striated muscles (the muscles for flight or fight).  All this created more trouble for my parents.  It was dad vs. mom with my sister and me in the middle of the two combatants.

From the end of early puppyhood, Babe was most often sequestered in a portion of our backyard.  She would come in the house to sleep at night, but she wasn’t part of the family to easily fit in with our mother.

Somewhere in the sixth grade Babe followed me, about fifty yards behind, to my elementary school.  When I got to school she came-up to me and we were both so happy.  But then, I had to take her back home.   I wanted her in my life so much more than I had.  But the mom vs. dad issue kept all four of us family members up-tight and conflicted about dad’s passive aggressive stuff and mom’s over the top anxiety.

One day, at the age of twelve, I came home from school with my sister.  Immediately we realized Babe was not at home.  We asked mom about Babe. She told us that Babe was sent to live at a farm where she’d have more freedom and a family that would love her.  But, we, my sister and I loved Babe and we wanted her home with us.  A few hours later, my dad came home and we went through the same B.S. with him.   My sister and I  were sobbing for hours.
Our Babe was gone.  My sister and I asked if we could go visit Babe at the farm.  We were told that Babe’s home was many miles away, too long to go to. Within a few weeks, I closed down and somehow, at the time, I became shut off from my strong sadness and anger toward my parents.  For the next twelve years, I rarely took joy in playing with a dog.

For me, this saga was a huge attachment bond rupture.  My beloved dog was taken away from me.  My parents attempted to placate me, but it was useless.  My father, with his low level depression and his passive aggressive stance with mom, and her high anxiety levels that kept her an emotional mess, meant the dog was gone.

Years later when I’d ask about this trauma, my father would give me some watered down version of how, if he could have done it differently, he would have.  In essence, not bring home the dog.

My mother never put words that made any sense when I’d ask her about this long ago saga.  Basically, she’d just talk about it in vague and short words, and then  change the topic, all the while being filled with anxiety.

So…looking back on this saga of 50ish years ago, is it any surprise that my specialty as a psychotherapist is with anxiety and depression?

Oh, currently I have two wonderful goldendoodles, Wrigley and Fenway.  Their mothers are golden retrievers and their fathers are full-sized poodles.

Thank you for taking your time to read the blog.

I’m eager to get feedback from you if you are so inclined.

Bye for now,

Jonathan J. Brower, Ph.D.