On August 21, 2022, I met my friend Julie for a beer. It was the first time I’d been out of my house without lining up dog care in nine months.
In nearly a year prior, I’d adopted my chiweenier, a peppy chihuahua/dachshund/terrier named Charlie from a rescue in New Orleans.
I was about a month out from ending the longest relationship of my life, and I knew the rational thing to do would be to ease into my new single life, gently and calmly. For almost three days, I congratulated myself for being rational — waking up early, sobbing while watching “This is Us”, drinking far too much water as if hydration could cure a broken heart (it can’t, but it can distract you by forcing you to pee every 8 minutes).
As the youngest of four children who prefers a little chaos to none at all, I soon found myself scrolling the pictures of rescue pups around the country.
Less than two weeks later, I was boarding a plane with a dog carrier and texting my friend Tori “this is a totally fine, adult decision, right?”
The first night I had Charlie, he cried nonstop. I wasn’t bothered; I’d crate trained my pandemic puppy, Nelson, in a few days; I knew I could do it again.
Night after night, Charlie dug at his crate and whined so intensely that I eventually gave up on the training. If he pees in bed, I thought, I’ll restart with the crate.
He never peed in the bed. He did, however, scratch grooves in the door each time I left the house.
“You don’t get the dog you want,” my sister chuckled, as I lamented my Charlie woes over the phone. “You get the one you need.”
I knew what she was trying to say.
I was a single woman who, despite more than a few lengthy relationships, had never been particularly convinced that romantic partnerships were a net positive for ambitious, independent women.
It seemed I’d found the most comfort in dating aloof, emotionally unavailable men who would never leave me because they never needed me and therefore I could never disappoint them.
And then came Charlie: a 15-pound labor who needed me, not only to feed and bathe and walk him but also, apparently, to be within eyesight at all times.
After doing the requisite hours of Instagram research, I discovered with 90% certainty that Charlie had a version of separation anxiety called isolation distress. True separation anxiety means a dog can only feel safe with one specific person. Charlie panicked when he was left alone — but felt better when any person came home to spend time with him.
At first, it seemed like this panic could be solved relatively quickly with some stuffed Kongs and a solid-sided crate.
But as I continued my research, watching countless TikToks and Instagram reels, the only two pieces of advice that were consistent among recommended trainers:
Training will take at minimum 6 months - 1 year
The best thing you can do right now is never leave your dog alone. Ever.
“Caselli’s do hard things,” I told myself, as I launched into a multi-week quest to find a trainer, vet a daycare, and enlist all the work-from-home friends I could possibly muster. I’d built a business as a solo founder and I knew that if I was going to have any success with this, I’d need help.
Due to pandemic demand and my fall 2021 travel schedule (which feels like a fever dream because I was traveling AND coordinating 24/7 care for a 4-month old puppy that could never be left alone — how did I do this? Is this how parents feel? Thank you to my friends who signed up for co-dog-parenting with me during this time, I can’t believe I suckered you into this), Charlie and I couldn’t start training until January 2022.
Do you want to know what I did, five days a week with my now-six-month-old puppy? Here’s a snapshot of one of my first training sessions with Charlie:
Stand up, walk to door. Return to desk. Wait 35 seconds.
Stand up, walk to door, jiggle door handle. Return to desk. Wait 1 minute.
Stand up, walk to door. Return to desk. Wait 45-seconds.
Stand up, walk to door, open door a crack. Return to desk. Wait 1 minute.
Stand up, walk to door, jiggle handle. Return to desk. End session.
This. 5-days a week. For MONTHS. MONTHS!
Meanwhile, I restructured my life to accommodate Charlie’s needs.
I learned to order groceries for pickup, arrange dog care when I had doctor’s appointments, and paying for a local college student to sit in my house with my dog so I could go on a date once a month. I turned towards outdoor activities and made friends with almost exclusively dog people. I signed up for FOUR group dog training classes so I could at least have some community while I was mostly stuck at home with Charlie. I planned vacations around dog friendly locations, knowing I’d need to take Charlie with me.
Which is why, when I sat down next to Julie during Charlie’s first 50-minute alone session nine months later, the first thing I did was sob.
I sobbed because, after a particularly challenging two years of never quite feeling like I’d accomplished anything I set out to accomplish, I finally did something important. Something that was really hard, a fact I was reminded of when, nearly weekly, anyone who ever had a dog would tell me “is it really worth all this work?”
I sobbed because instead of choosing to do it in a way that made MY life easier, I’d prioritized Charlie’s life. We went at his pace the whole time, and it worked.
I sobbed because, even in my most challenging moments, I realized I’d built strong support systems with people who understood how important it is to celebrate accomplishing really hard things that are tinted in sadness and lined with grief.
***
Working with Charlie to make him feel safe was a really hard thing, but hard things are what life is all about. I’m the descendent of Italian & Sicilian immigrants, and the only thing we love more than a life-eviscerating challenge is the opportunity to lament said challenge, preferably loudly and with wild hand gestures.
I’ve been writing professionally on and off for 15 years (my first paid writing gig was for a yoga brand in 2009 that I recently found out was sold to Wanderlust), and the pandemic burned me out from writing. What I thought would be a three month break turned into 18 months, just in time for me to finish training my dog, end a lucrative tech contract, and do the thing I do best — jump face first into a hard thing and knowing my parachute is already appearing.
Writing is how I do that. I’m looking forward to dragging you along for the ride.