Enter, Roo

It isn’t that I was afraid. Of course not. Raised as the only sports-playing, fight-starting, mud-tough girl in a highly feminine household, of course I was not afraid.

But being alone on the road can get the best of anyone. It’s glamorous to think about taking off, commitment free, ready for any adventure that life throws at you. But what about the days when adventure is scarce and cat-callers are rampant? What about the nights when your van is parked in a Wal-Mart parking lot instead of at a scenic vista point? What about the adventures that feel safer in hindsight than in the moment?

Enter, Roo.

I used to make fun of people who talked about their dogs like dear friends. But now I know the soul of a dog.

We had been traveling in our little rolling home for a few months when the panic attacks started up again. A few times a week I would be paralized with the kind of anxiety that hits like a wave. Usually getting triggered at inconvenient times in inconvenient places. Like Trader Joes, or a truckstop bathroom. But I suppose there’s no convenient time to be bent over in fear and exhausting tears and tremors.

She never left my side. She would feel my chest tighten and demand to be close to me. She licked every tear from my cheeks and would stare sternly at me for hours even after the shaking stopped. When physical contact from other people would cause me to spiral into chaos, the warmth of my cow-colored hound dog was enough to pull me out of the panic.

And that would have been plenty enough to convert me to team “man’s best friend”. But then she saved my life.

I’ve hiked by myself my whole life. I’m aware of the risks and I take the necessary precautions. And I was thrilled when I found that Roo’s happiest moments were running up and down trails, taking turns with me in the leading and following. So we were both ecstatic to take off for a leisurely 6-mile loop on a misty June morning. The trail was difficult to follow and we took a few wrong turns. As we hiked higher up the mountain, the terrain changed from solid rock to slippery shale.

The last half mile to the summit was completely covered with tiny slivers of rock and debris. There was no clear path in sight, so we just trudged upward. The sliding ground was difficult for me and almost impossible for Roo, who’s legs constantly got stuck in the deep gravel. About halfway up, we spotted a trail. She made her way to the side of the mountain where a clearer path began to form and I followed suit. It was a relief to find some solid ground, despite the steep drop-off to one side. We walked for a few minutes when I noticed that Roo was whimpering. I checked her for injuries but found nothing. A few more minutes passed and she completely stopped walking. I urged her on but she began to step backwards. She turned around on the narrow path and started to go back towards the shale-covered hillside. Frustrated, I followed, intending to get her back on the right course.

It was only a few moments later that I heard the rumbling. Not a deep sound like an earthquake, but sharp crackling like shaking a bag of popcorn. Just around the bend in the path, right where I had been standing, rocks began spilling from the top of the mountain and falling off the edge of the path.

I threw myself to the ground and flailed for Roo. The rockslide lasted for a few minutes and when the dust cleared, the path we had found was gone. My dog had saved my life.

I slid down the steep section of the mountain with Roo on my lap, and the adrenaline rushing through my body pushed me to get back to the trailhead in record time. Roo stayed at my hip the entire walk back and was almost as excited as I was to jump back into our little van for treats and a much needed nap.

I don’t know what would have happened that day without the protection of my perfect, rescued, mutt, but I do know that my heart would be much smaller. I don’t know how, or why she comforts me through panic attacks and the loneliest roads in America, but I know that without her, my mind, and the world, would be a much scarier place. I’m lucky to know the soul of a dog. I’m lucky to have a companion with velvet-soft ears and animal instincts. I’m lucky to know unconditional love. So of course, I’m not afraid.