An Open Letter to Wanda's Mother
Dear Wanda’s Mother:
Your daughter was nine weeks old when I met her. Her name was Caramel then, but I quickly decided that was too saccharine (I know, you didn’t choose it), and changed it to Wanda: a name I felt more appropriate for the confident, sociable, and strong young lady that I intended to raise. I hope you approve.
Everything about Wanda was adorable: her floppy ears, her tiny snout, her wiggly body, her wobbly legs that were a bit too long for the dachshund in her, and her calm, grounded presence that belied her chihuahua roots. I had read about chiweenies - that they were prone to barking and nipping, and that they were not good with kids. “[T]hey can be easily irritated by noise and activity,” one website noted, and “[t]hey are… known to not get along with other animals.” Your little girl, however, seemed different: she was quietly inquisitive, delicately sniffing around my living room while the woman from the foster agency and her 10-year-old son watched. She had arrived with another chiweenie friend, Herbie, whom I was also interviewing. Wanda seemed just as happy to play with Herbie as she was to lick the 10-year-old boy’s face. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn that I quickly fell in love with her. I’m sure you were in love with her too.
The first night she slept at our house, she didn’t utter a peep for seven straight hours, and only began to stir when her thimble-sized bladder needed to be emptied. She has met many dogs and people in her month of living with me, and responds with either a demure interest or slight trepidation, quickly followed by playfulness. She isn’t fazed when I grind my coffee beans or when other dogs bark, and she can sleep like a champion through whatever loud beats are pumping at my gym. The dog trainer I work with comments frequently on her mild manners, her curiosity, and her quickness to learn. I try not to mistake any of Wanda’s behaviors as my own personal successes, though it is tempting. (As a side-note, I finally understand some parents’ tendencies to brag about their children: They are great, and I raised them, therefore I am also great!) Wanda is her own woman, as I’m sure you know, and though her brain and heart be but little, they are fierce.
I have heard many people say that dogs are reflections of their owners, and to some degree, I believe this is true. Your species is incredibly perceptive of our human energy and stress levels, and if we are not careful, we can certainly imbue them (you) with some of our own neuroses. But sometimes, even the most caring, careful owners can raise yippy, nippy pups, just as sometimes, even the kindest, most patient parents can raise children who rebel, and rebel hard. No matter how much safety and love we offer, there are many things of which we are not in control; this is especially true of the babies we adopt.
In Bessel van der Kolk’s book The Body Keeps the Score (perhaps you’ve read it?), he references a study that examines rats’ relationships with their mothers, and how these relationships affect development. The conclusion was unsurprising, and the implications clear: “The rat pups that are intensively licked by their mothers are braver and produce lower levels of stress hormones under stress than rats whose mothers are less attentive. They also recover more quickly - an equanimity that lasts throughout their lives” (154). A similar conclusion was reached in another study with rhesus monkeys, and again, in a study with humans: “Monkeys with [deficient serotonin transmitters] that were raised by an adequate mother behaved normally and had no deficit in their serotonin metabolism… humans with [the same deficit] had higher rates of depression than those [without the deficit] but… this was true only if they also had a childhood history of abuse or neglect” (156). In short, attention and affection from a loving parent yields greater equanimity and resilience, regardless of genetic makeup (and regardless of species). I don’t know when Wanda was taken away from you, her first mother, but I can only assume that by the time she was, she had already received adequate licks and copious snuggles. Thank you for that.
Since I am not Wanda’s biological mother, I don’t have the advantage of having known her her whole life; I won’t be licking her coat like you did, or picking her up by the scruff of her neck, or even sleeping next to her every night. But I will pet and cuddle her as much as she allows, introduce her to as many loving humans and dogs as I can, and remind her in plain English that I love and appreciate her and how much she is learning. I guess that’s the cool thing about your species: you’re part dog, part human; you can understand both languages if we let you, and if we communicate clearly.
I will leave you with one final anecdote: Last week, as I was telling my counselor about the stresses of dog-parenthood (I’m sure you know that it’s not always easy!), she showed me a picture of a bumper sticker: “Proud parent of a great kid who is sometimes an asshole and that’s OK!” I laughed and immediately felt soothed. I am doing my best, she reminded me. I am researching and learning about dog development, putting in time and effort and love. Wanda’s successes deserve to be celebrated as her successes, and when she fails, she needs to know that I still love her, so that she can continue to feel safe with me. Safety is essential; love must be unconditional. For Wanda, for you, and for me.
Thank you, Mama Wanda, for providing our little gal with so many licks, and so much affection in her formative weeks. I will do my best to continue helping her feel safe, supported, and well-loved in all the human ways I know how.
Abby (Wanda’s adoptive mother)