The Dog with the Old Soul

Complete healing would take some time, but I was no longer afraid to face the truth. I also knew I had to plumb the depths of my own emotions to try and understand why I had been burned by the scorched earth of betrayal time and time again throughout my life.

I thought of the U-branded horses and realized, though I didn’t carry that letter outwardly, I carried it inwardly. To most people, and even to myself on a conscious level, I was a happy, optimistic, career-driven woman with lots of love in my life. I had children I adored and many relationships I treasured. But I had been drawn to men who seemed to love me on one level and hate me on another. I would start out with the warm glow of feeling cherished. But invariably over time the relationships brought a cold, sad message—I was unwanted.

My mother delivered that scarlet letter U for “unwanted” when I was just a girl. She was a troubled person, depressed and addicted to alcohol, which further twisted her mind. Underneath it all, there was always a spark of meanness. I tried to steer clear of her sting and just let it drift past, but the day came when her darkness changed my life.

I don’t remember what I asked of her. It could have been a ride to a friend’s house. I know it wasn’t much. She sneered at me, a suspicious, small smile curling her lips. Already I was on alert. Nothing good is going to come out of her mouth, I thought.

She said, “Suzanne, dear, you are such a lucky girl, aren’t you? You’ve had the security and safety of feeling loved all your young life, haven’t you?”

Why is she saying these things to me? There is something sinister brewing.

“Yes, poor dear, the truth will confuse you, but here it is. I have never loved you, never wanted you, never cherished you. You are unloved.”

People underestimate the power of words. These words, her words, devastated me. It was the deepest betrayal from mother to daughter—an intentional fire set to burn down the trust of an innocent, unsuspecting child.

Looking back over my life, I think my mother loved me. I also think she very much wanted to hurt me. It’s hard to reconcile those feelings and actions—loving and hurting seem so discordant. But I have come to understand that her desire to hurt must have derived from some deep wound of her own. Over the years and after her death from the effects of alcoholism, I thought I had forgiven her. What I didn’t know was that I carried that wound of her words deep in my subconscious mind, and it colored my opinion of myself. Unwanted. Unloved.

Again I had walked into the fire of someone else’s loving and hurting. Had I stayed married to a man for twenty-four years because in my subconscious he replayed my mother’s themes?

I had to try and heal this deep hurt, or I was destined to invite betrayal into my life for unlimited visits. But how to heal? How to forgive? That seemed like a tall order. There was another way to keep betrayal from my door and it seemed easier. Just never love again, I thought. For a short while that seemed like the best answer. Then I met the plain brown horse with the big U on his neck.

I had checked back on the unwanted mustangs from the Grace Foundation’s Trainers’ Showcase. There on the website I found a listing of the U-branded horses. As I scrolled down, I could see in bold letters next to their names the word “adopted”! It was exciting to see that so many of these most unwanted of the unwanted had found forever homes—except one horse, at the bottom of the list. They called him Vigilant. He was a plain brown ten-year-old mustang with a sturdy-looking body and a kind eye. The vet had noted that he had been gelded and was healthy, with no apparent problems other than the trust issues that went along with being severely neglected. There was no happy, bold “adopted” next to this horse’s name.

I wanted this unwanted horse. It just felt right to start my new life wanting the unwanted. It would help remind that little girl who resided in my subconscious, she was wanted and loved very deeply. I made a promise to bring that kind of sacred love to my life in any way I could. I had rescued two abandoned dogs, so why not this horse? And this is how Vigilant found his forever home with me. I spoke with the trainer who had worked with him, and she told me that he had a willing attitude but definitely did not offer automatic trust to all who approached. She suggested I start all over again in his training…being careful to first establish that trust.

And so the two U-branded souls began their work together. The first week I fed him only over the fence and let him settle into his new space next to my other two horses. He didn’t seem nervous but I could tell he was wary. The second week I went into his pasture and tried to approach. He ran from me each time. I didn’t try to catch him. I just stood as near as he would let me and talked to him softly.

And then like a tightly closed bud protecting itself from winter’s frost, the horse, like the flower, began to open to me. He let me approach and stroke his neck, moving my hand over that awful U, wishing I could erase it. The following week, when I opened his pasture gate, he trotted over to me, inviting me to pat him. When it seemed time to put a halter on, he lowered his head into it willingly.

Still, I moved very slowly with him—one little success at a time. In a month I thought he was ready for some round pen work on a lunge line. I discovered that wonderful foundation the first trainer had established. This horse followed my commands perfectly when I asked him to walk, trot, stop and then move out again. When I asked for the canter, it was clear he had no idea what I wanted, but he tried, anyway, trotting ever faster as I urged him to move out. I changed my communication style. Instead of using my voice to ask for this faster gait, I moved my own legs to the cadence of the canter.

Now he was really confused. I could sense what he was thinking. You want me to run? But mostly I run when I’m fleeing something threatening. Are you scary? How could I tell him I didn’t want him to run in fear? I wanted him to run in a new way, slower, more controlled, a dance I might one day join him in. I talked to him softly, moving my feet to show him what I wanted, and when he began to gallop too fast, I said encouragingly, “Good boy! Now just slow it down a bit.”

One day I just thought, It’s time to get on this horse. Moving things along very slowly, I put my foot in the stirrup and stepped up to the saddle, then down again. He was so quiet. In a few days I felt sure enough of him to put my foot in the stirrup and swing all the way up and into the saddle. I asked him with my legs and my voice to move out at a walk. He responded perfectly. And what a perfect moment for me. Never trust, never love again? This horse had been abused, neglected and betrayed, yet he was showing me he was willing to trust again. Who was I to shut out the world? If I could build mutual trust with this horse, building it with a human being might be possible. This horse was showing me the way. I would be open to love again someday and then I would know how. Just take it slow. Build it step by step. Be wary, but be willing.

I thought back to that moment of deep self-love in my dark night of the soul. That love was a bridge to freedom—freedom from anger, sadness, regret, self-recrimination…freedom to be wholly and holy loved. Now riding this U-branded horse, I reached down and stroked his neck. “You are not unwanted and will never again be unwanted. I want you. You are loved.” The horse and I had stepped up to our challenges. I was healing that U brand in my soul. I would not be a slave to betrayal.

My plain brown horse deserved a name that would transform that sad U into something fitting his grandness. Why not Underestimated and Ultimately free? Now I open his pasture gate and call his new name. “Good morning, Freedom!” He calls back with a whinny and trots to my side.

A Nose for Love

Dena Kouremetis

When my husband, George, and I look back, we shake our heads in disbelief. We didn’t find one another on a dating site or throw flirtations to one another across a crowded bar. The brother of my maid of honor, George was a groomsman in my 1982 wedding to someone else.

See, it’s a Greek thing. During the ensuing twenty years, I’d spot George at Greek weddings, festivals, funerals, picnics and dances I would attend with my husband. And each time I’d see him, I would ask his sister about him, taking curious note of the fact that he’d stayed single. My knowledge of George extended to his being a gregarious, good-looking family friend that danced well. After my marriage broke up two decades later, however, I was to discover that George was still there, unattached. And when he found out I was about to become single myself, he wasted no time saying he had no intention of missing his chance to finally get to know me. Well, it’s just about the most flattering thing a middle-aged woman can have happen to her, isn’t it?

So is this what they meant by “happily ever after?” Well, almost.

You see, my new love made it clear early on that he had pet allergies and that, although he liked dogs, he would probably never own one. Pet dander was a new term to me.

“What happens when you’re around a dog?” I asked.

A pained look came over George’s face. “My sinuses get stuffed up and I get headaches. Then I get sinus infections and it’s awful.”

Hmm, really? I’d had small dogs throughout my life. They’d warmed my lap, watched TV with me, melted me with their doleful eyes and filled up spaces in my heart humans simply couldn’t. It was tough to face the idea of never owning one again. “Can’t you get shots?” I asked.

George looked at me as if I had reduced his affliction to inoculating livestock, and it was there the subject ended.

As things got more serious between us, I rationalized the idea of having the freedom to travel and socialize without worrying about a pet. I could accidentally drop food on the floor or leave a door open without having to worry about a little being scurrying to snatch up the morsel or run out of the house. The freedom began to grow on me. A little.

The day finally came when my daughter walked me down the aisle to George and life began anew. At dinner with some friends not long after we moved into our new home, we learned they were getting a Shima puppy flown down from the Northwest—a shih tzu–Maltese crossbreed, a dog that had become popular over the past few years for its personality, its no-shed fur and, of course, its cuteness factor. Rena and her daughters would excitedly show us photos of their mail-order dog. There was jubilation the day Maxie’s doggy crate, containing a floppy-eared, mop-tailed pup, was handed to its new owners at the Sacramento airport. In the end, Maxie would be everything this little family had wanted in a dog and more. He was adorable, easy to train, smart and absolutely charming. Even people who hated most dogs loved this little guy.

Rena could tell I was smitten with her new four-legged charge. I’d make any excuse to “stop by” for a visit and I loved it when she or her girls would knock on our door with Maxie in tow. And even though I’d watch George begin to sniffle afterward, it was apparent that he became putty in Maxie’s paws. Soon a conspiracy began to hatch. Rena began forwarding me by email photos of new Shima puppies she received from the Spokane, Washington, breeder of her own pup.

The short-limbed, big-eyed blobs of fur in the photos were, of course, totally disarming. The pure white ones looked like tiny snowy owls, and the brown ones like diminutive shaggy dogs you could cuddle to death, like the character in Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, if you weren’t careful. With each set of photos I forwarded to George, he’d make a remark that I was trying to wear him down. I was. By the time I forwarded the third batch of litter photos to George, it was all over.

“Did you see the black-and-white one?” he calls to me as we occupy our respective home offices in our new house.

“Oh, yeah. He’s my favorite,” I admit.

A few minutes go by. I hear nothing but the click of George’s mouse. Then a feeble voice echoes down the hall to me. “I think we have to go see this little guy.”

If I could do a happy dance atop my Aeron chair without killing myself, I would have risked looking like an idiot.

Before he could change his mind, I was busy emailing the breeder, asking questions about the black-furred, roly-poly handful with the white paws and white belly. She told us about his parents, how he was the first puppy that wanted to be held, how large he might grow (no more than eight to ten pounds) and when he would turn eight weeks old—just old enough for him to leave his mama. The next day, knowing our heightened interest level, the breeder snapped more photos of him and sent them hurling through cyberspace. There was one of him standing on her deck, one with him shakily perched atop a rock and another one that was a close-up of his little black-and-white face. We were head over heels in love with our small furry Internet date.

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