Echo

Over the years, I’ve realized that you never really stop being a soldier. The way I perceive situations, the way I approach challenges differs from how a lifetime civilian would. It can be frustrating, because one path might seem so clear to me, while those around me are intent on a path that is incomprehensible to me.

And then there are deeper and more troubling burdens that come from having been a soldier. I don’t always notice the lurking scars within. Then, one day, I’m at work, focusing on the task in front of me, and without warning, someone will hurl a heavy wooden pallet onto the floor behind me. I feel the impact reverberate through my chest as the pallet rebounds off the concrete floor. Before I know what’s happening, I’m back there, in the dark desert night. Rockets explode all around me. The strain in my chest is nearly unbearable. In some ways, the flashback is almost worse than what happened in the past. The desperate urge to do something consumes me. I want to react. To seek safety or fight. But there’s nothing I can do. There’s nothing there to hide from or to fight against.

For many years, my wife was my main source of support during this struggle. I now understand that, in a different way, it must have been as painful for her as it’s been for me. To watch me fight against things she couldn’t see or truly understand-it must have been torture. But she never gave up. It was her idea to look into getting a dog for emotional support.

We’d had dogs before, but it had been several years since the last one, who had been born without eyes. Her problems became more severe, and after only a few years, I had to have her put to sleep. She, like every dog we’d had before, was a family dog. We had these dogs when the kids were still in school and back at home, so they were everybody’s responsibility. This time, it would be different. The kids had moved out, and my wife is a paramedic who works nights and irregular shifts. It would be up to me to take the dog for walks-more than once per day-no matter how I was feeling. It would be my responsibility to take the dog to the vet on time for its shots. I would make sure the city dog license was up to date. I would ensure there was always plenty of dog food. For several days, I thought about it and finally concluded that I was up for it. The dog’s health, training, and everything else would be solely my responsibility. My wife’s involvement would start and stop with treats and toys.

After deciding to get a dog, we had to determine what we were looking for. A puppy wouldn’t have been the ideal choice for us as our schedules would’ve made it difficult to be there as much as the puppy would need. We agreed that we needed an adult dog. My wife’s family raised German shepherds when she was a child. She’s often said that her first babysitter was a German shepherd. Apparently, that particular dog had established limits for how far she was allowed to go, and if she tried to crawl too far away, the dog would drag her back by her diaper. Needless to say, my wife prefers larger dogs. I’m a tall, long-legged man, and I thought it would be best if the dog did not have to struggle to keep up with my strides when we walked. So, a large dog it was.

Breed was not important to us. Where the dog came from was. We did not want to buy a dog from some puppy farm. We wanted to adopt a dog with a calm demeanor that needed a good home. It was a given that a calm dog would be the best candidate for an emotional support animal, and so we decided we were looking for a dog with a quiet, attentive nature, who could be a calming presence and provide an alternative point of focus than the emotions warring inside me. That dog, whom I would build a bond with, would ideally be able to ease my anxiety, support me and bring me back from a panic attack. It sounded like just what I needed.

We started browsing shelters online, then went to an ASPCA shelter about an hour from home. We selected that one because it was severely overcrowded. Not only would this give us a larger group of dogs to choose from, but this shelter was in desperate need of people to adopt dogs. My wife called in advance and explained what we were looking for to the woman who ran the shelter. In retrospect, I realize it was the first time in my life I’d ever gotten a dog the right way. The shelter behaved as though I were adopting a child. With our criteria in mind, they identified several dogs they thought would suit our needs, with one specific dog they thought was the best choice.

The shelter was located on the southern edge of a small town, the sort that’s typical in southwest Iowa. We pulled into a gravel parking lot that bordered a large, open area surrounded by a chain-link fence. Just inside the gate at the front was a modest cinder-block building. A few rows of outdoor kennels were situated between the south side of the building and the fence. Inside the fence, dogs ran loose, barking with excitement at the approach of visitors.

The head of the shelter showed us around, and we looked at more dogs-and cats-han I can remember. We were surrounded by dogs vying for attention, but soon, it was time to get down to business. One by one, I took the candidates-three lab mixes, a shepherd mix and a redbone coonhound mix-out on a leash, just the two of us. We walked across the gravel parking lot to a grassy area shaded by a few trees.

Most of the dogs ignored me. They focused on birds or passing cars. Even when I kneeled to talk to them, their attention was always elsewhere. This happened with all three labs and the shepherd. But the coonhound was different. When I squatted to talk to her, she sat up on her haunches and put a paw on each of my shoulders to look right in my eyes. We bonded immediately. It may seem like I was expecting too much from the dogs, but I don’t think I was. I was looking for a connection, and I found it. I’ve experienced nothing else like it in my life. In that moment, I knew she was the one, and it turned out she knew I was the one as well.

The shelter staff called her Sid. Because they needed to wait for the results of her last test to make sure she was free of tapeworms, I couldn’t take her home that day. I’d only just met her, but it was very hard for me to walk away and leave her there, even though her test results were due back the next morning. Many dogs were loose inside the chain-link fence, but only one followed along as my wife and I walked down the sidewalk to our van-Sid. When we reached the van, I turned to the fence to assure her I was coming back the next day to take her home. She jumped up with both paws on the fence and looked at me with the biggest smile, her tail wagging happily. She knew I was the one and wanted to go with me. Leaving her there, even for just twenty-four hours, broke my heart.

The next day, I was excited beyond belief when I went back to get her. She was ecstatic to see me, hopped into the van without hesitation, and settled on the giant dog bed I’d brought along. My wife had made it by folding an old comforter over, sewing the sides together, and stuffing it with batting. It was an immense, puffy affair that Sid immediately claimed as her own with obvious and adorable satisfaction.

Having her by my side felt right. Her name, however, was something I felt needed to change. She just wasn’t a Sid. I thought it over, considering all the things the shelter had told me about her personality and what I had observed in my short time with her. One thing kept coming back to me: the shelter staff had told me she just wanted to be loved and always wanted to be with people. It made me think of Echo, the nymph, of Greek mythology, who fell in love with the beautiful human Narcissus. But Narcissus fell in love with his own reflection and lay by a pool, staring at it until he wasted away. Echo pined away for Narcissus until all that remained of her was her voice, but she could only repeat the words that someone else had already spoken. All Echo wanted, just like this dog, was love. That was her name. She wasn’t Sid. She was Echo, who just wanted love, to give it and receive it.

It did not take long for Echo to become a part of our household. Naturally, she had some anxiety while acclimating to her new home. During that period, she chewed up anything she could get a hold of, but that didn’t last long. Our house is fairly large. She has a dog bed in the computer room near the front entry, and there is another dog bed in the living room that adjoins it. But she doesn’t always sleep in the dog beds. Sometimes, she can be found on the couch, especially if someone is sitting there and she wants company. Sometimes, she’s in the bed in the bedroom just off the living room. At night, she likes to sleep in bed with me, but if she isn’t ready to go to sleep, she still comes in and sniffs around my face after I lie down. Then, after checking on me and putting me to bed, she goes back to the living room or to eat her food.

Every time I come home, she’s sitting there waiting, always just as excited as the time before. Even though she sits properly as she’s learned to do, her excitement still shows in her front feet, which dance up and down as she wiggles in place. She knows that as soon as I’m home, we’re going for a walk. The outdoors and walks are Echo’s favorite things.

It’s been five and a half years since I adopted Echo. She is as much a part of me as my own arm. When I’m struggling, she knows, and she tries her best to make me feel better. Just witnessing her concern as she sniffs at me, trying to determine what’s wrong, is enough to pull my attention away from my inner turmoil. When my chest feels tight and my heart tries to pound its way to the surface, Echo soothes me. With my palms flat against her ribs, I focus on her strong, steady heartbeat. It’s like her heart pulls mine into a slower, calmer rhythm. Her long ears are velvet soft, and it is soothing just to touch them. Her red-brown eyes that match her soft coat are intelligent and aware. She stares at me as if she can see inside of me. Echo gets it. She knows I struggle, and she makes me stronger.

There is no question-I did not save Echo. Echo saved me. She keeps saving me every day.