I’m a dog person now – and no one is more surprised than me. A hopelessly devoted dog mom to a mixed-breed rescue named Lucy: my first and only child.
It’s quite a turnaround, as I used to have a crippling phobia of dogs.
A panicky fear would build in my chest if I saw one coming towards me. I would immediately cross the road and avoid parks; off-lead canines were the stuff of nightmares.
I certainly couldn’t be in the same room as a dog. My childhood friend Danielle had a German Shepherd named Moss, a huge beast who gravitated toward me as if he could smell my fear. “Take him away!” I would scream, frozen in horror.
People asked if I had ever been bitten. But no: the fear was always there, a part of me.
My younger sister longed for a family dog. She begged our parents to buy one, while I warned, “If you do, I’ll run away.”
By the time I was 20 and living in London, my anxiety was a deeply ingrained part of my personality. On our very first date 15 years ago, my now husband told me he wanted a dog. “I’ll never get one,” I told him. If this man wants a dog, I thought, then I’m not the woman for him.
But that conversation was actually a trigger for change. Over the years, dogs crept into conversations about our future and what we wanted it to look like. I didn’t want to be a rigid woman incapable of growth.
At home I learned to fight the impulse to cross the street when a dog approached, Alice writes. (She is pictured with her dog Lucy, a mixed breed rescue)
So I found myself sitting opposite a ‘pioneering hypnotherapist’ in Harley Street in London. He shone a light back and forth that I followed with my eyes until I entered a hazy, dream-like state in which I revisited multiple moments from my past when fear had taken over my rational mind.
Under hypnosis, I told my childish self that there was nothing to be afraid of. Moss was not a bloodthirsty monster, but a gentle giant who wanted to say hello. My fear was based on a feeling – flight, fight, freeze – that I could now control.
I left that clinic feeling reborn. But the work didn’t end there. If my husband and I got a dog one day, I had to actively like him instead of just feeling fearless. I had to be exposed to dogs.
Shortly after the session I visited my friend who had a French bulldog, Alvin. I was terrified of him like a rambunctious puppy, but in one weekend I learned to adore him. I gave him cheese and stroked his belly.
When I sent him a photo of me cradling Alvin as a baby, my husband called to ask if I was okay, as if it was some kind of lame joke.
At home I learned to fight the impulse to cross the road when a dog approached. Most ignored me, but if a dog wanted to say hello, I gave it a stroke. I also changed my jogging route to spot dogs in the park and found myself becoming jealous of their owners.
That’s why we started purchasing dogs through BorrowMyDoggy – an online platform that connects owners with ‘borrowers’ who want to interact with dogs. We met Simba, a labrador who threw himself on the ground and refused to give in, Ray, a labradoodle, who was so cute and sweet, and Juno, a gentle black lab.
Slowly but surely, I began to realize that dogs weren’t out to get me; they were unique beings, full of love.
Gradually, I fell in love with dogs that were up for adoption on the websites of rescue organizations. That’s how I came across Lucy, during the lockdown days of 2020
A rugged blonde who wanders around with distrust in her eyes. I told my husband we had to meet her. Then we brought her to our garden flat in South London
There were highs and lows. Once, Simba brought a dead bird from the garden, but I shocked myself by dealing with the situation.
But my husband not only became happy, but everyday life also became easier. I was less nervous and no longer afraid of the potential ‘danger’ lurking around every corner. A deep empathy had developed for all animals – even pigeons.
Gradually, I fell in love with dogs that were up for adoption on the websites of rescue organizations. That’s how I came across Lucy, during the lockdown days of 2020.
A rugged blonde who wanders around with distrust in her eyes. I told my husband we had to meet her. So we did that three times in her foster home before we let her live with us in our garden flat in South London.
“Be careful when you take her out of the car,” warned the nonprofit organization Give A Dog A Home, “as there is a good chance she will run away.” And just like me before, she was full of fear.
Although I had worked hard on my phobia, it flared back in those early days. I felt strangely uncomfortable being alone in a room with her – very alert whenever she moved.
In those first years I often shouted internally: ‘What have we done?’ Lucy snarled and flinched until she gradually realized that we weren’t going to hurt her.
But six years later, and the connection surpasses anything I’ve ever known. Lucy asks nothing of me and yet I would give her everything.
As I bury my face in her fur and breathe in her musty smell like it’s my newborn baby’s head, I’m so glad I ended up here: high in our love.
When Lucy leans her body against my legs or looks into my eyes without fear, our bond there – indefinable, untouchable but tangible – is so strong that others can now see it too.
My husband always knew it would happen: that there was a dog lover inside me. He thinks he’s Lucy’s favorite, and she and I made him believe that. But we know the truth: she is my soul dog.
