To ward off the quarantine blues, my boyfriend and I decided to foster a dog. I had been staying at his place, and we had been binging television shows and playing internet sudoku to pass the time. I had also been obsessively looking at dog rescue pages on Facebook like it was my job. I would have six or seven tabs open from various rescues at any given time. I desperately wanted a dog to lift my spirits. I think my boyfriend only agreed because he was tired of looking over at me after a funny one-liner on whatever Netflix show we were watching, only to see me entirely engrossed in a Petfinder listing.

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I got a call late one night from a local rescue. They had a young, male German Shepherd who had just been surrendered under strange circumstances. Shadow’s owner had died, and he had bopped between family members until landing with a grandson. The dog had been turned in with his tail mostly chopped off. It was a fresh wound and a clean cut, negating the family’s claim that he had chewed it off himself. The family had left the future serial killer grandson at home and unnamed, protecting his identity, and any chance at legal justice. I was nervous about the situation, being queasy at the thought of anything medical. But he was hard to deny given his history. Plus, I hate the confrontation of saying “no.” And I wanted a dog. I was assured he was sweet as pie. So, we drove the thirty minutes to pick him up early the next morning. He barked when we first arrived but warmed up to us quickly, as promised. His tail, which ended in a flat stub, was barely a quarter of its intended size. It was still an open wound, but the gore was mostly concealed by his fur. He was scheduled the next day for an amputation by a proper medical professional rather than a knife wielding sociopath.

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Someone handed me, by all accounts an unqualified caregiver, an animal in a dire state. I was suddenly responsible for a medication schedule, vet visits, and spoon feeding. We slept in shifts to make sure he didn’t break free of his cone. I monitored the quality of his poops. It was a stressful, but not a fearful, time. In return, Shadow quickly identified my boyfriend and I as his people. Despite his history, he never showed aggression with us, eventually even offering us access to his tummy for rubs. But as he recovered, his aggression towards other dogs started to show.

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Living in a very pet-friendly community—a dog park is in clear view from the front window—we could barely take him out without CIA level planning. We plotted our movements and monitored the number of dogs outside at any given time. Almost a week into his recovery, we took him out just as the sun was starting to drop. It was a beautiful early spring day, and we misjudged the foot traffic—a critical error. Shadow was unbothered by the first dog. At the next dog, his ears started pivoting wildly. Another dog passed from afar and barked a greeting. He started to get anxious, yanking on his collar and barking in alarm. It was the fourth dog, across the field, that completely unhinged him. He slipped his snug collar and medical cone in one hard twist. We pounced, holding all seventy pounds of raging dog with everything we had. I was nervous to take him out alone, and sheepishly asked my boyfriend to come every time. Bless my anxiety. For once it paid off.

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This was true terror. I identified it as it happened in some back compartment of my brain that kept processing even as everything else shut off. It was like the ding of a check engine light. Terror engaged. I became singularly aware of one thing. The dog. The dog whose teeth turned to fangs in anger. Whose frantic barking came out in mangled tones I’d never heard from a living creature. Who was turned from sweet pet to wild animal as he tried desperately to wrestle away from us. He was thinking with his body, and so was I. I understood animal instinct. Much like the near-car crash, I could see the future play out. I was acutely aware that if he slipped—if we gave him a fraction of leeway—he would be gone. He would be across the field and at the throat of the neighbor dog while we watched helplessly. I could see the limp body of the other dog. I could feel the sinking of teeth into flesh. It would be vicious. My brain was in my arms as I bear hugged his body. In my hands as I grasped at the collar. In my mouth as I tried to tell my boyfriend what to do, but my sentences came out as single words. Then my brain was in my chest as I remembered breathing was important, too. The impact of an attack never came. With shaking hands, we fumbled his collar back on and haphazardly secured his cone. We led him inside, our bodies rigid and eyes certainly wild, although I didn’t have time to check the mirror.

 

Terror is like an exaggerated and acute attack of fear. It’s the definition of a heightened experience. It cut off the oxygen supply to my brain. I felt it move through my blood stream. It slowed down time. Terror is quite cliché, actually. It’s a surprising feeling, but also one I’ve seen on a TV screen many times before. When the moment passed, I was left with shaky hands and an intense gratitude that I never witnessed the final impact that I crafted in my mind.