When Old Wounds Bite Back

Two of my dogs got into a scuffle the other night at feeding time. My wife was feeding them in our basement and had her back turned while doing double duty at the washing machine. I was in my frog room feeding some toads when I heard a ruckus. My wife started banging metal food bowls and screaming for me to come help.

Our smallest dog, a forty-ish-pound white boxer named Rousey, was on top of our largest dog, a long-haired German Shepherd named Lida. Rousey wouldn’t relent. The whole ordeal lasted maybe two minutes, but it seemed like an eternity. We love these dogs. This isn’t a common thing. But with four dogs, sometimes things happen. Incidents like this get amplified with the yelling, barking, and the frenetic chaos of trying to de-escalate a situation.

My wife was a wreck. This was a traumatic event for her, and naturally, it affected her—how could it not? She’s a very kindhearted person. Violence of any kind isn’t something she is accustomed to. Somehow, I was calm in the commotion. When things are going well, my brain often betrays me and creates stress. But in legitimate stressful situations, everything gets singularly focused, and my hypervigilance becomes a superpower.

After the dogs were separated and we triaged the situation, we tried to decipher what had just happened. I sent my wife outside with the German Shepherd. The other two dogs were shuffled upstairs, and I shut myself in my frog room with the boxer. There was blood on her white fur, and I had to determine if it was hers or the other dog’s. It was a mix of both. Thankfully, there wasn’t a lot. She had a little nick on her ear that I treated with peroxide and Neosporin. I wiped the blood out of her fur and left her in the room to tend to the other dog.

Lida was mostly fine, with a small cut on her lip and not much else. Her thick hair likely prevented any real damage. We got lucky. Neither was hurt worse than a few scratches.

What struck me the most was that nothing would dissuade the boxer from her attack once it started. It was frenzied. She is not a mean dog or aggressive toward other dogs. As the smallest and one of our oldest, she is the alpha in our pack. She became singularly focused on her misguided objective.

After reviewing the camera in the basement, I saw that the German Shepherd was trying to steal food (or crumbs left over) from the boxer’s bowl after we fed her. Seeing this offense, the boxer ran across the room and laid into the Shepherd. That’s all it took.

All of our dogs are rescues. Each one of them was found starved and emaciated by the respective animal shelters or non-profits we got them from. We’ve had them all for years. They’re fat and healthy, and yet those memories of hunger pangs probably still live within them. So, for one dog to attempt to steal food from another likely felt like an assault—and the boxer wouldn’t let that slide.

Our dogs are great, but sometimes, a trauma response can override their normal behavior, as evidenced last night.

How many times do we let a slight or minor offense send us into uncharacteristic behavior? I, for one, am guilty of it. Some offhanded comment or gesture can often send me back to a place I haven’t been in years. The anger wells up, and I react in kind. I grew up being bullied and talked down to, and any hint of that as an adult makes me go on the attack.

When I get backed into a corner, I often verbally come out swinging, and before long, my mouth is a fire hydrant of words that spew forth with a fury I can’t contain. Much like my little dog, once my objective is in front of me, I won’t relent until something breaks that violent hyperfixation.

A few years ago, during a session with a half-interested counselor at a Vet Center, I learned why I react that way. When we experience violence—or trauma of any kind—our limbic system becomes hyperactive. Specifically, our amygdala goes into overdrive. This is our brain’s fear center, often called the reptile brain. It puts our bodies on high alert when we perceive we are being threatened. We go into fight-or-flight mode, heightening emotional arousal and impulsive reactions when we feel at risk.

In those moments, we react by instinct, and our rational thought processes are temporarily shut down. The only things that matter are escaping or conquering whatever stands in the way of our safety.

It’s hard to sidebar ourselves to think clearly in those moments. When we’ve had traumatic experiences in the past, our responses are heightened, and our reactions are more dramatic than those who haven’t had similar experiences. It sometimes helps to force yourself to shift your focus from the “fight” and ask if you are really in danger. If you are, fight for your life. If not, maybe readdress your reaction and try to break that tunnel vision.

Just like in the case of my dogs, once the “threat” is over, things go back to normal. Within an hour, the dogs were friends again, as if nothing ever happened. My wife and I were still a little frazzled by it all, but in the end, things worked out okay. We learned that we may need to be more attentive during feeding time—just in case.

_________________________________

Stan Lake is a writer, photographer, and filmmaker from Bethania, North Carolina. His work has been published in Reptiles Magazine, Dirtbag Magazine, Lethal Minds Journal, Backcountry Journal, Wildlife in North Carolina, SOFLETE, The Tarheel Guardsman, Wildsound Writing Festival, and others. His poetry collection “A Toad in a Glass Jar” is scheduled for publication in late fall 2024 by Dead Reckoning Collective. He has written three Children’s books and one Christian Devotional book. He filmed and directed a documentary about his deployment in Iraq with the Army called “Hammer Down.” He spends most of his free time wrangling toads.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.