Fur-Baby Fears
Bosley was my first baby. He was the brindle boxer we got six months after Scott and I were married. His short coat was marbled with black, caramel, and white-colored fur. He had coffee-colored eyes (dark roast) with a lower lid that sagged like a loose rubber band. He had a smooshed face that made plenty of wrinkles for me to kiss on. I didn’t grow up with a dog, so I was eager to break into adulthood by getting a fur baby. Like the character in Charlie’s Angels, our Bosley was exuberant, and he attracted the ladies. Whenever we walked him down the street people would stop to pet him because his droopy eyes gave off that come ‘hither and give me a scratch’ kind of vibe. He would fold in half with excitement when we got home, often knocking over furniture accidentally with his enthusiastic dance of joy. He was a solid piece of muscle and when he jumped at full force, he destroyed things or knocked us over. He was my baby, but he was also a lot of dog with a lot of energy.
We accommodated Bosley’s annoying tendencies, but I often felt overwhelmed by his antics, particularly after having our first child. My first human baby was a sickly one. He was constantly dealing with ear and sinus infections, while also having what seemed to be the beginning signs of asthma. As a new mom with untreated OCD, the stress of handling all these new health problems took its toll on me mentally. I always felt like our son was on the verge of being sick and my fears about germs soared. I looked to control every aspect of my son’s healthcare. Eventually, based on one random thought, my sights were set on blaming Bosley for all my son’s health issues. I was convinced that having a dog in the house was creating allergies for our boy and we needed to rid our house of the allergens he was leaving around. I began feeling constantly guilty about having a dog in the house. I was convinced he was to blame for all the issues our son was having. I obsessed about it. I cried about it. I googled about it. I ruminated on the feelings of guilt I had for getting a dog. Why did we ever get a dog? How could I have caused this? It was my fault our son was sick all the time and I had to fix it. The obsessions grew as did my need to get the germs away, so I would no longer have to blame myself.
Eventually, I convinced my husband to rehome the dog. I searched far and wide for a boxer rescue that would rehome Boz, much to my husband’s disagreement. He thought I was being over the top with my concerns and tried to counsel me that it was too extreme. My unwavering panic suffocated his arguments and finally wore him down. Scott sadly drove Boz to the mountains, cherishing every last slobber.
I know now that getting rid of Bosley was one giant compulsion. I thought that by removing him, the fears and obsessions surrounding my guilt would magically disappear. I realize there are legitimate reasons to rehome dogs, but deep down I always knew the foundation of my decision were the false fears my brain had concocted. Giving our dog away didn’t rid our son of his infections or relieve the tensions in my heart about his health. I felt momentary relief after he was gone, but it was quickly replaced with the all too familiar regret that compulsions cause. I still couldn’t get off the mental hamster wheel, even when all my demands had been met and my home was rid of his fur. My brain created a solution to avoid the reality that sometimes I will make decisions that unintentionally hurt people. I’ve had to learn how to sit in that truth without trying to control everything with irrational solutions. It’s hard and I don’t like doing it. I’d much rather do the things that make me feel in control, so I won’t be responsible for hurting anyone, especially my kids.
When we were stuck at home during Covid our kids wore us down and we decided to get a dog again. He’s not a boxer like Boz was, but as a Boston terrier, he still has the delicious, smooshed face I hold so dear. I find myself wondering what happened to Bosley. I wish I could’ve been there for his last years on earth, but I choose not to ruminate. I choose not to obsess over the guilt I have about the compulsion I succumb to all those years ago. God has used that experience to teach me in my journey with OCD, so I strategically think of it as a hard-to-swallow blessing.
God used Bosley in my life and I’m thankful for the unconditional love Boz gave me with his enthusiasm and zest for life. When I feel the urge to do something extreme as a way of removing feelings of fear in a situation, I try to remember the lack of relief I got when ridding our lives of Boz. No compulsion will eliminate the fear. No compulsion will create certainty. However, our God is more than capable to use all the parts of our recovery journeys, even regretted compulsions, to point us to himself as He propels us to better mental health. We do not need to feel shame about past compulsions because each one is a stepping stone as we learn healthier ways to cope with OCD.
