Bow Tie o’ the Day knows as well as I do that Skitter is not a cool cat. She is not hip. I don’t think we can truthfully describe her as groovy. She is not da bomb. Nope. Skitter is nerdy. Skitter is a Helen’s-girl. Skitter is timid. Skitter is a cowering wallflower. Skitter is the Mistress o’ Skittishness. Sometimes she does not walk or run to her destination, she shivers and vibrates her way to wherever she’s going.
It’s been almost five years since we rescued Skitter from an abusive situation. We don’t know the details of how she had been treated. We just know her life before us had been horrendous. Her defensive, frightened behavior is all the evidence we need in order to know she lived through hell. After all these years, Skitter still can barely handle being around anyone who isn’t me or Suzanne or Mom or Suzanne’s sister, Marjorie. The Skitt can hardly handle being anywhere except in our home. And even then, she is still occasionally wary of normal house and neighborhood noises. She sees her world as an obstacle course, designed to keep her from safety.
But even with her being almost perpetually askeered, she is becoming mostly content and happy in her days and nights with us. Her tail finally wags often, and twice per day she does what we call The Chew Dance on her hind legs. At 11 AM and 7 PM each day, we give her a dog chew. And let me tell you, she can tell time. Seriously, if I lose track of the time while I’m working on something, Skitter will show up jumping and turning on her hind legs. “Hey, look at me, Helen! It’s 11 AM! Time for my chew, Helen. Don’t you know it’s my chew time, Helen? Did you forget how to tell time, Helen? Look at me dance! A chew! A chew! A chew!” Bless you, Skitter.
I’ve never told anyone this before– not even Suzanne– but a few months after we rescued Skitter, I was concerned about the lack of progress she was making in terms of her constant fear. She was not “warming up” to people, places, and things as well as I thought she should have been by that time– not even to us.
She didn’t bite or fight in any way. She didn’t bark or whine. But if you made eye-contact with her, she would still run away and hide behind something, or she’d drop to the floor and ball up like a roly-poly, hoping to be unseen or ignored. I tried every strategy I could come up with to make her feel safe with us and with her new life. Nothing seemed to assuage her fears.
I began to wonder if it might be better for Skitter if the vet and I helped her go to sleep. Was Skitter’s 24/7 fear of being abused really that much better than her actually being abused? We loved Skitter, and we out-did ourselves showing her she was safe and adored. It all boiled down to this question: Do Skitter’s moments of feeling happy and safe outweigh her moments of fear and insecurity? I think I would have been irresponsible to NOT consider the possibility that Skitter might be happier if she didn’t have to exist.
Well, it’s obvious what I concluded. I’m glad we all had faith we could get Skitter to where she is now. Skitter stuck it out with us. She’s still skittish and hesitant and turns into a roly-poly on occasion, but now she doesn’t dwell in her fear constantly. In fact, she mostly dwells in “running” naps and in her own oddness. We appreciate her peculiarities, and we try to make her feel safe in herself and in her environment. She appreciates our peculiar ways too, I’m sure.
It’s a rare thing, but sometimes– as in this first picture– Skitter feels happy and free and safe enough to lean over and kiss me. Most. Bashful. Smooches. Ever.
Skitter’s tough heart makes me proud.
