PTSD Pup©
By
Joseph P Dougan
Eventually, though there are thirteen or more chapters in my Vietnam Life as an RLO stories, I will ultimately run out of wartime thoughts. I will get the June chapter out next week. In the meantime, writing is my form of entertainment. I ran across this story I posted last year that needs to be included in my subStack account. If you are on my email list or FB page you have already read the original story though I have added additional content in this version. I’ve tried to incorporate more information about PTSD and its effects in this article. There are still too many out there that don’t understand what it is and its effects.
For those who don’t know me, I have PTSD, but I don’t mind talking about it. Most do. PDSD is not crippling to me now, though at one point it was. I spent twelve weeks in a voluntary VA hospital program to learn how to deal with it. They taught me how to cope with the traumas that my memories can bring to the surface. I do not mind talking about personal issues. I have counseled other veterans from Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan to help them understand that recovery is a process. I think some of my subStack stories will be helpful to others dealing with PTSD. I hope that my openness with the subject will also help friends and family understand the complexities and why talking to someone who wasn’t “there” that they recognize our emotions are unexplainable.
There is an expression, “Not everyone who lost his life in Vietnam died there. Not everyone who came home from Vietnam ever left there.” Replace “Vietnam” with any other combat conflict, and the meaning is the same. Everyone who has been in that type of environment has some version of PTSD. It is one of the reasons that dad or grandpa may act a little differently.
PTSD does not mean you are crazy. Far more women (not soldiers) deal with it than men – look it up. Hopefully, this story about my dog will help make understanding the process of dealing with PTSD easier.
A couple of things that I learned when going through the VA program was how to deal with emotions. One was to write. Two, I love to work with dogs, and one of my doctors suggested that I focus on that innate ability to communicate with animals. I am not a professional trainer, but dogs seem to listen to me. They are also much more forgiving in dealing with my emotions than humans.
I was never part of the in-crowd in high school. Some friends became doctors and lawyers, some even famous. Me, I did better than anyone expected until 2000. My life came crashing down after back fusion surgery. Eventually, the VA awarded me a 100% permanent disability from multiple combat-related issues, though I think “award” is a misuse of the term.
The following story is one of my favorites. I wrote it a few years ago and revised last year. It is more than a man and his dog. It was a life-changing event for me.
PEPPER
Man’s Best Saving Friend
By
Joseph P Dougan©
final revision April 12, 2022
Today’s tome is a little lengthy and not funny, but worthy of print. It concerns my drop-dead gorgeous, coal-black, German Shepherd service dog, Pepper. Like, what else are you going to name a coal-black GSD?
I need to backtrack a little, so you understand why I have a service dog and how Pepper came into my life.
I have PTSD from a couple of noteworthy years in Vietnam as a helicopter pilot. I did not have a PTSD problem for thirty years though apparently, the symptoms were there. That ceased in 1999 when I was examined for a severe back pain condition. My surgeon attributed the disc degeneration to many hours flying helicopters. I went to the hospital late one Saturday night for my first (of many) MRI’s (magnetic resonance imaging.)
I am a techno-nut and was looking forward to my first MRI … that is until the slab with my body started inching its way into the tube. We (the medical staff and I) came to the immediate conclusion that I was extremely claustrophobic. The MRI machine was one of the original style MRI units; there was less room in it than a fist-width between the top of my nose and the top of the tube.
It took seven tries to stabilize me in the tube. The final position resolved with me being secured by a cold compress across my eyes, a fan ventilating the tube, 60’s music through the earphones, and finally, my wife holding on to my one exposed hand jutting from the end of my metallic sarcophagus. I was terrified. L
The MRI started with its incessant slapping and vibrations of the magnets down the side of the tube. That noise and vibration feel exactly like a machine gun working its way down a helicopter tail boom. I spent the next forty-five minutes reliving a nighttime hell in 1968 Vietnam. I went into the MRI one person and came out another. My life would never be the same again.
Four years later, my counselor, Dr. Matt Menger, encouraged me to attend a voluntary twelve-week specialized program at the Waco VA hospital. I would learn how to deal with PTSD issues. Once PTSD is unleashed, one does not get over it; they teach you how to live with it. One of my VA doctors saw that I had worked with dogs all my life (the four-footed kind). He recommended that I train a service dog as a form of personal therapy. That was my intent when I started my search for a new pup.
I searched the internet for training and trainers. I found Jeff and Heather Mincy at Lieben Kreiger Kennels in Temple, TX. Lieben Kreiger breeds German Shepherds (GSD’s) for service dog attributes. Jeff keeps one dog out of each litter to train as a service dog. He will donate his personally trained animal to one of the deserving families in central Texas.
For the life of me, I do not know how one can do this. From my own experience, I do not know how you can invest that much time and love into an animal and then watch it walk away. I could not do it. I rank Jeff and Heather right up there with hospice workers in their selfless efforts to make the world better.
After many conversations with Jeff to understand service animals, I knew that I had a dog selection problem. I have always been particularly good at picking good pups, but Jeff had the one knowledge I didn’t. How do you pick an eight-week-old pup and know that it would be good service dog material?
When I explained what I wanted to do, I asked for his help. Jeff told me that he had already picked his training dog from the current litter, but I was in luck. She had an identical twin, and I got her, Pepper.
I should have known from that first trip back from Temple to Dallas that this would be an extraordinary dog. Pepper would be a good name for this hot springtime day. I picked Pepper up, carried her to my truck, and laid her down in the front seat. It was around 105 degrees OAT. That is not unusual for Texas, but it was unusually hot for this time of year. Pepper was about to go on her first truck ride that would last at least three hours. I anticipated the worst. First rides can be traumatic for any pup, so I brought a dog crate if she became uncontrollable.
Doors closed, windows up, air conditioner on -- Pepper felt that rush of cold air blowing on her after a sweltering afternoon in the Texas sun. She took one final look at me, rolled over on her side to take full advantage of the blizzard, and fell fast asleep. She barely moved a muscle all the way home. There were no brothers, no sisters, no whimpers, and no puking. As they say, she was jiggy with it. J
Training began almost immediately. Training a pup is loosely defined as massive people interaction and doggie treats. She seldom took more than two or three repetitions to master any task. Pepper has been an absolute delight and has done everything that my doctors could have wanted her to do in calming me down. When I go to the VA hospital without her, the docs and nurses chastise me if I don’t bring her. When I go to a store and some arrogant SOB questions the necessity for my service dog, I tell them she is here to protect them from me. J
Pepper can be in the back bedroom and hear my computer mouse hit the floor in the living room and will come on a dead run to pick it up before I can get out of my chair. If I drop my change at the cash register, she will pick it up. Pep has mastered picking coins as small as a dime off a tile floor. With inflation being what it is, I don’t make her worry about pennies. J A friend of mine dropped a quarter last week at the Coke machine; she gave him back two dimes and a nickel … ok, so that is stretch’n it a bit, but the lapping up coins as small as a dime is all true. She is amazing.
The only training that I had to untrain was telephone recovery. I taught Pep to bring me a ringing phone … pretty cool. However, I got tired of her punching through the digital displays with her canines; it was getting too expensive. J She’s not a Labrador Retriever with a soft bird-handling mouth. As much as she likes water, she thinks she is a Lab albeit one with pointy ears. J She is still very much a German Shepherd who wants to spend her afternoons compressing a hard rubber Korg donut. She does it all day long … like she’s eating Lifesavers. J
All of these “tricks” aid in assisting with my mobility issues, but last year she did something out of devotion … a sixth sense and not teachable.
In January of 2013, because of my PTSD and back issues, I had been on an emotional rollercoaster for the better part of thirteen years. I had lost my business and ability to work at the peak of my earning career. Depression became a norm; anti-depressant drugs became candy. That January, despondency reared its ugly head, and I was at my emotional ends.
My wife had to go back to work to help support us, especially with the health insurance issues. She would leave every day around 8:00 and not get home until after 5:00. Being alone is absolutely the worst thing for someone experiencing the depths of depression.
Heather Mincy of Lieben Kreiger Kennels has epileptic seizures, but her dog has been trained to recognize her impending medical condition. Without the advance notification that her service dog gives her, she wouldn’t be able to leave the house. Depression, however, is not episodic; it is a constant. A person left alone can lose all sense of personal reasoning. Suicidal ideations can be overwhelming.
Our house is cordoned off with gates to keep the pets restricted to the tile floors and off the rugs. When my wife would leave for work, Pepper was left in the kitchen with the rest of the menagerie, a couple of tiny Schipperke’s. During my latest bout with sanity, I would remain in bed all day waiting for my wife to come home for the evening or the brief respite of a weekend. On Monday, my wife left for work. I was at the nadir of my depression with the worst of all thoughts going through my head. Pepper had sensed something was seriously wrong. She started crying at the gate and would not quit. She had never done that. I got up and let her in bed with me.
She sleeps on the bed with us every night lying at my feet. That Monday, she did not lie at the foot of the bed. After I got back in and covered up, she laid down parallel to me with full-body contact and rested her head on my shoulder and under my ear. She stayed there all day. If I got up, she got up. If I got back in bed, she resumed the position puffing warm air down my neck. Comforting, to say the least, but as soon as my wife came home, she would continue her normal dog activities by returning to the kitchen to terrorize the Skips J .
Tuesday came; again, my wife went to work. Pepper started her whining again. I was reluctant to get out of bed. She became more incessant, obnoxiously so. I let her in, and we repeated the previous day’s cuddling performance.
When Wednesday came around, my wife left; we repeated the previous two days of whimpering. This time, however, I ignored her. I could not care less and did not want to be bothered anymore. Undaunted, she jumped the kitchen gate and burst through the bedroom door. She had never jumped the gate before; she knew her place.
Thursday began as a repeat of Wednesday except, this time, I had closed the bedroom door and locked it. Being locked out only lasted for seconds. I was listening to her gouge the door and frame with her claws trying to get in. Apparently, I still had feelings for something, because I surely didn’t want to pay for those repairs. I opened the door to repeat the Monday through Wednesday cuddling.
Friday, I told my wife to leave the gate and the bedroom door open. Pepper was back in the bedroom as soon as she heard mom’s garage door going down.
By the weekend, her protective antics had brought me around from my severe ideations. Her instinctual actions became an emotional discussion point. How do you teach a service dog to do what she did? You don’t. Why did she do it? I have no explanation. But, I can unequivocally say that she was instrumental in giving me my life back. Let me make that point that absolutely clear: Pepper saved my life.
As a medical aside, prescription drugs were as much a contributor to my depressive condition as anything to which I can point. I have since eliminated all drugs except for my blood pressure. I have not taken an anti-depressant since April 2013, nor have I felt any desire to. 2013 was the best medical year of the previous thirteen. However, Pepper is now a changed dog too.
Since being under her control, I am no longer allowed to be by myself. If I get up, she gets up. If I go to the kitchen, garage, bathroom, front yard, back yard, car, pool, grocery store -- you guessed it – she is by my side. If she doesn’t get to go with me, she gets belligerent. When I get home, she is so vocal you’d think I just got back from a year in Afghanistan.
I am not sure Jeff and Heather knew what they were giving up when I got Pepper, but I am sure glad they picked her for me.
I LOVE that dog.
…………………………….
P.S. Pepper died April 13, 2021 from a massive hemorrhage -- most likely a stomach cancer. It was sudden. We were playing ball at 7:00 AM. By 5:00 she had to be euthanized immediately to prevent any further suffering.
Great story, Pat. It explains a lot of the why's and why nots of PTSD and service dogs. I have ALWAYS had at least 1 dog, but usually 2 or 3. Your description of Pepper could be my Chinese Shar-pei, Blue. He si the second Shar-pei I have owned, and he is still a puppy 8 months old. Like Pepper, he learned t slide the "gate back separating his area of the house. He since has wormed his way into sleeping in our bed every night (at 40 pounds). He wants to run and jump and play, but our 8 year old miniature poodle does not.
It is amazing how some dogs know when something is wrong, sometimes before the owner does. Thanks for the stories. Please keep writing.
Bert