Gotcha Day
Many people who adopt dogs honor the dog’s “gotcha day,” or the day the dog came home. This week, I experienced a different kind of “gotcha day” - in a perfect world, I would be celebrating a year with my first-ever puppy, Ella. Instead, I recall a time when my OCD trapped me, said “gotcha,” and prevented me from being able to take care of the puppy I loved so much.
Even after a year, I still blame myself for what happened. I know it doesn’t make sense. I know that even when I hear a puppy whining in the park it sends me back into unpleasant memories. I know how much I value my sanity and that I wouldn’t give it up for anything. But at the same time, I still struggle with feelings of inadequacy about what happened.
I often think that someone neurotypical - someone “normal” - could have taken care of a puppy with high anxiety and some physical problems. I picture this “normal” person as calm, rational, able to be the adult in the situation and realize that they have things under control.
Instead, I’m stuck with my memories of not being able to turn my head away from Ella, in case she peed or pooped on the floor. Never mind that she was almost completely potty pad-trained by the time I had to return her to the breeder. Never mind that an accident produced by a 3-pound puppy took a couple of minutes to clean up. None of that seemed to matter when my brain was revving and demanding that I do nothing but watch this tiny puppy in case she had to go to the bathroom.
I know that a lot of the problems with our situation were not caused by me, but they were exacerbated by me. I wasn’t the one throwing tantrums for hours on end, but I was the one crying at the tantrums and probably making them worse. I wasn’t the one demanding 24/7 attention, but I was playing into that need of Ella’s by not being able to turn my head away. I wasn’t the one who didn’t know how to walk or sniff grass or do anything any dog I’ve ever met is able to do, but I was the one who couldn’t make myself eat or sleep or function in any way until I reached a crisis point in only nine days.
I was so desperate to get her out of my house that when I asked the breeder to return her on a Saturday and she said she was only available on Sunday, I begged her to reconsider. And yet, I missed Ella as soon as I put her in the breeder’s arms, the same arms I had taken her from not even two weeks prior. I think of her, not often enough to disrupt my life, but when I hug a Frenchie on the street or see dogs parading around in Halloween costumes, I think of her.
I wonder what her name is. I wonder if someone helped her with her anxiety, and if she’s doing as well as I am. I hope she’s not scarred from the experience, and yet, I hope she remembers me. I have a fantasy I know will never come true, of somehow running into her on the street and recognizing each other and being able to have closure.
One year on, I think the best closure I can get is mental. I need to believe that Ella, no matter what her new owners call her, is doing well, and that I didn’t mess her up or ruin her life. I know for a fact that my life is much improved mentally, socially, and financially, even if it meant giving up the little warm puppy falling asleep on my shoulder and snoring far louder than her tiny lungs should have been able to.
When I told my therapist that Ella’s “gotcha day” was coming up, she asked me how I was feeling. I answered honestly - a weird mix of relief, shame, and sadness. Some weird kind of grief for a life I could have had, if only I was different. But instead of my other fantasies, this one was real for nine days, and I experienced both the good and the bad.
She reminded me of my friend who was recently in a similar situation, returning a dog after 3 days. She asked me what I told him, how I consoled him when he cried into the dog’s fur just like when I cried telling Ella I was going to send her to another home.
And just as I remembered Ella licking my tears - the last photo we have together - I remember what I told my friend. That he gave dog ownership a good, honest try. That it didn’t guarantee failure in the future. That he might be better at it if he was working with someone else instead of trying it alone. That he would find a way to have a dog someday where he and the dog were both healthy, and that was more important than embarrassment or shame.
As I spoke, I understood why my therapist made me recall this conversation - I am much kinder to others than myself, and have a big problem forgiving myself for failing to do something I really want to do because of my mental health. I do know others who have had to return pets, and it doesn’t make them bad people or slaves to their mental illness or any number of unpleasant things I called myself when the feelings were still fresh.
It’s been a strange week. I’m doing my best to be kind to myself, to go out with friends and have fun and remember that these are things I can do because I have a good handle on my mental health. I went to the park earlier today and hugged half a dozen dogs and allowed myself to imagine my future success with dog ownership instead of harping on my failure.
I don’t think I’ll have complete closure with this situation until I am able to have another dog. Until then, I think there’s going to be a small part of me that doesn’t believe I can do it, that doubts my character and strength. But one day, I know that I’ll be dressing up another dog in a Halloween costume, and somewhere out there, Ella is doing the same thing.
We might not be reunited at any point to celebrate Halloween or “gotcha day” together, but in the end, we both got what we needed: a good home for her, and a way to work on issues I’d shoved under the rug since I was a teenager with a good therapist and a more mature outlook.
Ellie, a writer in the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.