Faithfully Your’s

Dottie is a life-saver. She helped me survive some of the worst years of my life. Her encouragement helped me hope and garner my self-respect once again.

My Dottie is a papered Chinese Sharpei. I am told the breed is one of the world’s first known thirteen domesticated dogs. The United States did not have access to these beauties until the Bamboo Curtain parted for trade with China in the 1970’s. I wanted a guard dog. One of my Doberman loving patrons recommended the Sharpei because of a longer life span. Like most dogs, she is terribly protective. Yet she is not a sweet Labrador retriever. More on that later.

I arranged to get one of my daughter’s friend’s pups. I hadn’t had a dog in years, so when I took the heartbroken baby home from her mother, I rocked her in my chair until the whimpering and howling stopped. I began referring to myself as her mama and she my fur-baby. I used to laugh when people referred to their pets like this, yet Dottie changed my mind. She and I are family.

I work as a studio artist. Oftentimes I would be alone within the halls of multiple art studios open to the public. The indigent population often came in off the cold streets of downtown Colorado Springs. I was not afraid of the stranger so much then, but my new dog with keen senses and muscular body definitely warned any would be attacker by her very presence and occasional growl. Yet it was not a rapist or homicidal stranger she ended up protecting me from. It was my husband of over thirty years.

Even I was unaware of how deep the wounds the love-of-my-life hid for so many years. It was soon after he had been in a car accident he started changing. His injured body no longer allowed him to do the laborious physical work our twenty-five year old company demanded of him. Or I should say, work he demanded of himself, although we had loyal employees and our son was at the helm. He drifted further away. Became hard. Callous even.

Of course I noticed the changes. The mood swings. He told me he thought I would prefer he be dead. Every negative thought he had became centered upon me. He became terribly combative. Both irrational and neurotic, he picked fights to leave the house for parts unknown.

I reached out to friends. Our pastor. Many considered his using the newly legalized medicinal marijuana problematic. He had returned to gambling—a lifelong addiction he said was under control. I did not know his new psychologist had diagnosed him with PTSD back then. I did know he stopped going shortly after starting EMDR with her. I know now memories were brought to the current day of horrible familial abuse, and admittingly to realization of the substantial neglect he seldom shared. I didn’t know his physical pain now contributed to nightmares and unwanted flashbacks as is typical with Complex PTSD.

I just knew I was loosing him. Our adult children flat out thought I exaggerated his verbally emotionally laden interactions with me. The threats to destroy my property seemed irrelevant to them. It flat out did not sound like their father to them.

I had insisted on marriage counseling. He insisted I was bipolar.

He also insisted my dog needed training. She began doing little things that alarmed him. Sometimes she would stand between our arguing selves with she and I facing him. Her strong muscular body stood ready to pounce and her ears stood on end. An occasional “woof” under breath directed at him obviously meant her displeasure. Other times her deep growl only could be taken as a threat. She made it very apparent he could not go very far before she responded. I worried when my lover got more physical than needed. I am quite sure she would protect me at all costs.

He would yell at me to “control your dog!” I might of called her name to calm her. Have her go lay on her doggy bed. Or, I may have had her leave us be. Yet, if I became frightened at his fully dilated eyes and foreign sounding voice, I was grateful for her presence. I’m quite sure Dottie gave him pause even though my tear filled pleas did not.

Honestly, I still have little control over Dotties as shown by her responding inappropriately to my directions. This he knew. He angrily took on this retraining of my dog making my failure to do so properly one of his greatest displeasures with me. His jealousy of her was extremely apparent. (She had evidently bit him though I never saw the mark.)

It was unpleasant. He tied her in the corner of our fenced yard insisting she learn to relieve herself just there. He would cajol her. Torment her. Make her sit, stand, stay, and lay down for the longest times. When I interrupted, or interfered as he put it, he claimed I loved the dog more than he. Quite often with his renewed interest in Dottie and treatment of me, I admittedly did not like him very much.

In fact, his gas lighting, calumny, and name calling frequently had me expressing my dissatisfaction and flat out hatred. I always was careful not to say I hate him, but he would corner me insisting that I did. Like I said earlier, he picked fights to get my negative emotional feedback. I complied.

I had little choice but to start leaving our home for periods of time. Sometimes Dottie and I drove to my mother’s for the weekend, a couple of times I chose to spend the night with one of our adult children. Dottie came along. She loved me, but did not like change much. She grew anxious any time I left her. Our fighting and my travels were causing her to change too. I could no longer take her to the dog park. She just wanted to fight.

Our kids wanted us to divorce. Eventually my husband started locking me out usually letting Dottie out the front door after me. I started a few nights by sleeping in my Chevy Malibu. One time I snuck back in through the garage, awakening him when I did. I pushed past him once telling him I was just too tired to argue. Another time I slapped him when he would not allow me to shut the bedroom door. He kicked in a locked door destroying the whole frame once. Dottie barked at this, and I held her close to me then. Our home had become a battlefield.

Far too many nights Dottie and I slept in different rooms from him; if he allowed me to sleep at all.

Any physical tussle I had with him proved his neurotic claim he was unsafe around me. He told our adult children I was hitting him. Pulling his hair. Talking bad about him online. He would send me emails or texts and add “you’re hitting me” completely out of context.

After a long cross country trip to the west coast for a funeral, we agreed to a separation brokered by our adult daughter. So this time he would not allow me back into our home at all. Dottie and I only had each other and a few clothes then, and one of the cargo vans I used for hauling art. He refused me my clothes and prescriptions and Dottie’s kennel. Said I needed an escort.

Family and friends were wonderful to me. But no one would come to the house and help me face him. No one else would hold him accountable. I was told to calm down many a time by professionals and family when I asked for help that never materialized.

Dottie became more depressed. My counselor told me this was common with dogs as they are very sensitive to emotions. She and I were always together. It stopped me from going into places alone due to her increasing panic and aggression. Yet I dared not try to leave her.

Two self-declared unmarried deputies responded to my 911 call my spouse dared me to make. I called because he took my laptop and threatened to destroy it unless I admitted to a nonexistent love affair. Due to poor training and a misguided and rather draconian need to enforce Colorado domestic violence calls; they believed someone had to go to jail. I just wanted my property back. I spent my 52nd birthday incarcerated due to my husband’s genuine ability to play victim. I’m 5’8” tall, and unfortunately outweighed my sickly looking husband at that time.

But there were some pretty dainty women being held. Some with their children removed from the home because they called for help. Laws meant to protect victims of domestic violence have largely been turned upside down. (Subsequent research proved typical law enforcement lacked the ability to discern the complex dynamics of troubled domestic calls including drug and alcohol use, and suspected mental illness largely atypical of domestic violence.) Had they known women are often more emotional, tend to fight back with scratching and kicking; and, that men typically regain composure apparently as soon as someone else is in the room, perhaps, then I would have been told “no” when I naively asked if they were going to arrest me. I had responded to my husband’s fabrications in a highly emotional manner. I hadn’t touched him. But he showed them self inflicted scratches from an ongoing rash present on his injured body. I found out month’s later he had signed a complaint full of lies, such as representing it was his laptop. (He justified that to himself because he had paid for it.)

I will never forget. Neither did he. This experience became his go to threat to call the law when we argued. Or, he swore to have my granted arrest expungement removed. (The charges were dropped by the ADA. He really could not.)

The most painfully cruel part was that these irrational threats came from the man I loved.

After he flew back to Colorado, and I had driven over 1500 miles with Dottie, he said he wasn’t safe around me any longer. I needed an escort. He knew the Sherrif’s office would not come.

I went to my mother’s. Dottie tore up her bathroom when I went to Walmart. Dottie attacked my dearest friend’s dog whose son gave up his room for me. There was no blood, but her husband made it clear my dog and I were no longer free to share their home. My friend continued to feed me and heard the reason for my tears. She was with me when I found out he had removed my cell service and placed it on his iPad. Now I was homeless with my dog and no phone.

I finally retained a divorce attorney after waiting weeks. She advised me the only way I could quickly get back into my own home was by filing for a Temporary Restraining Order against him.

I cried when the El Paso County Magistrate had no problem ruling for the issuance of the TRO. (I watched her refuse several before me.) Along with the aforementioned refusal to allow me my right to shelter in my own home, I also listed the threats, accusations, and multiple incidences of abusing my dog to get to me. It was not surprising the Magistrate also specified on the TRO as to safeguard Dottie by name.

I watched the deputies from afar escort my spouse of 35 years from our home with the subject to the TRO. He looked unkempt still wearing pajamas at four o’clock in the afternoon, I entered the now messy home torn apart. I discovered computers disabled, jewelry gone, and evidence he had been eating Jello packets for food.

Dottie tore through the house looking for him. Floor by floor, in the yard, garage, and her whimper becoming our mutual cry. She hadn’t seen Daddy in weeks by then. We missed him so much. We both knew quite well the man he was usually, and we knew he was gone.

I tried to stay busy. I painted a couple of new large pieces for an upcoming solo exhibit. Everything seemed empty. Wrong. We missed him. I remember taking Dottie to the gallery to deliver a few pieces and she clambered over my paintings and jumped out the van’s back door when I opened it. I was numb that she was even there.

Everything was harder without him.

My depression became so absolute and so desperate. One night I sat crying so much that I didn’t even bother to wipe my eyes and nose. Dottie got up on the couch which she rarely did, and squarely licked every inch of my face lovingly removing snot and all. This unconditional love displayed reminded me I was not alone. My dog was an angel sent to guard my mind and heart. I remembered my faith once more, and prayed for a miracle.

Dottie was my heavenly sign. Hope did return. Slowly. As did my husband. We are all slowly changing now.

Leaving Dottie alone at our change of address cost us carpeting and some 100 year old woodwork. She’s twice attacked the neighbor’s dog; although not drawing blood, and twice nipped at our granddaughter. My husband claims she has bit him again. I believe him because he hasn’t necessarily stopped being wounded himself. He still hurts me. But now I know when he says I’m lying about something he has said to me, he flat out may not be remembering. He really is trying. We meet up every morning to discuss—among other things—positive things about our spouse and our lives.

I smile now reflecting just the other day when he announced, “Dottie really has become a good dog.”

“Why, yes, she is a good dog,” said I. Truly a good dog. I share her, but we both know I belong to her.