If looks could kill, I’d have been dead twice over.

I’d taken Gracie to one of her favorite places—Tractor Supply Company. Gracie has trained the cashiers there to give her treats, planting her big paws on the counter. Smart girl. But I had a secret agenda, and when Gracie perceived my nefarious plan, I got the look.

A bath.

At the rear of the store is a little doggie spa with tubs, shampoo, towels, blow dryers, combs, everything you need to bathe your dog.

I’ve never understood how a dog who loves to roll in mud finds a bath so objectionable. I talk softly to her and ply her with treats, and she still acts as if she’s been led to the gallows.

At home, she retires to one of her several beds and shows me her back. Turning their backs is a way dogs sometimes demonstrate that they are upset with you. Today she was particularly adamant in her affect. Even when I brought her a peace offering—a bit of string cheese, her favorite—she snatched the treat from me without making eye contact.

So I settled in to watch the Yankees drop another game to the Rays. I was nodding off when I felt a cold nudge on my hand. Gracie. She looked up at me as if to say, “All is forgiven. Let’s be friends again.”

Forgiveness is difficult. I’m not always as magnanimous as my dog. I can cling to a grudge. Maybe I derive satisfaction in nursing a sense of injustice. Yet I know that forgiveness is a necessary ingredient in a strong faith. Jesus came to earth to forgive our sins. We are expected to forgive. I scratched behind Gracie’s ears, and she laid her head on my knee. It was nice to be friends again.

Lord, you know I have trouble forgiving a wrong. Today help me let go of a resentment and take a closer step toward you.

The post His Dog Taught Him a Lesson in Forgiveness appeared first on Guideposts.

I’d driven this lonely stretch of road hundreds of times in the months I’d lived in Arizona. I had moved with my teenage daughter from our home near Chicago to care for my mom. Her cancer diagnosis had come around the same time my stormy 23-year marriage ended. I’d thought I would help my mom recover her health. I’d wanted a fresh start, a chance to find joy again.

But things didn’t go as I’d hoped. My mother’s cancer spread. The doctors were saying she had only months to live. As usual, my best efforts hadn’t been enough. I wasn’t enough.

Truthfully, I’d felt like this since age five, when my parents divorced. I’d blamed myself—thinking that if I were prettier, smarter, better somehow, my parents would love me enough to get back together. That didn’t happen. My mother remarried and started a new family. My father moved on. I stayed stuck, believing I lacked something that made me worthy of love. Maybe that’s why I related more to animals than people—dogs and cats seemed to accept me as I was. And why I felt drawn to other folks who were hurting.

After high school, I tried different jobs. Certified nursing assistant. Makeup artist. I got a degree in psychology and managed a wellness center, where I learned about mindfulness, prayer and meditation. I started going to church, drawn to the community and the idea that God loves us unconditionally. I wanted to believe that but couldn’t. I was convinced I was the problem, in my parents’ breakup, in my own troubled marriage. Why would God see me any differently?

The wellness center closed. I found work at a psychiatric nursing home. By then, I was in my early forties and miserable. The one person I trusted with my problems was my mom, far away in Arizona. We talked on the phone every day.

Then, in the summer of 2013, doctors were following up on the breast cancer she’d beaten twice, years earlier, and discovered a different type of tumor. This time the diagnosis was pancreatic cancer.

Mom’s problems were a lot bigger than mine. “I’m coming out there to take care of you,” I said.

I left my job at the nursing home and flew to Arizona with my daughter. My son, who was older, stayed with my ex. I rented a place in Gilbert, closer to Phoenix and the urban conveniences I was used to. My stepbrother and his wife were also helping. I was hopeful Mom would pull through.

I drove her to chemo appointments and sat with her. I thought I was making a difference. But her condition worsened with each passing month. By the fall of 2014, the doctors said there was nothing more they could do. The sadness and the emptiness I felt were crushing. Especially on the lonely drives back to Gilbert.

This afternoon was no different. My gaze drifted across the sun-baked landscape. A few nondescript houses. Some fences. Then I saw movement. Behind a fence on the right. Goats! Running and jumping with total abandon. Maybe 20 of them. Seeing them was so completely unexpected, I laughed out loud. Where had these crazy critters come from? I’d made this drive hundreds of times and never seen them before. They looked so carefree. I had to check them out.

I pulled over. I walked to the fence and sat beside it. I didn’t call to the goats. I was content just to watch them do their thing. But a young white goat with floppy ears came running up to me. Close enough to touch. I couldn’t resist. I stroked its soft coat, and it edged closer, nuzzling against me.

The goat’s breathing fell into sync with mine, and for a moment it felt as if the universe consisted of just the two of us. Something radiated through me, pushing away the sadness, filling the emptiness. Love. Pure love. What I’d been searching for my entire life. It warmed my very soul. I’d done nothing to earn this goat’s affection. Yet it had been given to me. And that’s when I knew God had sent this little goat, an angel to comfort me and bring me joy. To show me how much he loved me.

The other goats came over to investigate. A larger brown one leaped up and set its hooves against the fence. I petted it. The white goat calmly looked on. Finally I left, practically floating to the car. “I’ll see you soon,” I told the goats.

A few days later, I brought Mom there. We sat along the fence, occasionally petting the goats but mostly just watching. Mom didn’t have the strength to do much more. They were accepting of us, curiously nosing about the fence, then prancing off. “I could watch them for hours,” Mom said. “They’re so joyful.”

I introduced myself to the owner. She was raising the goats for their meat, not as pets, but she didn’t object to our visiting. There was something centering about the goats. Naturally calming. Our visits with them were some of the most beautiful moments Mom and I spent together, time I cherished. A gift from above.

Mom passed away in March 2015. I wasn’t sure what I should do next, only that it needed to involve goats.

I came across an ad for a goat wrangler, working for a woman in California who provided trained goats for movies and commercials. I applied. Despite my having zero experience, she hired me. I learned how to train goats. Working on movie sets was fun, but I sensed God wanted me to do more with goats.

I met an incredible guy, an actor who believed in me and loved me for being me. We got married. There were no goats in the ceremony, and yet I couldn’t help but think that my life had changed because of those furry, flop-eared angels. They’d helped me see myself as someone who deserved to be loved.

“I want to get a goat of my own,” I told my husband one day. “One I can train to be a comfort animal.”

“Where are we going to keep a goat?” he asked. Our place in California didn’t exactly have room for livestock.

“I’ll get a farmer to keep him,” I said. “Back in Illinois.” My daughter had moved to the Chicago area after I remarried.

“Go for it!” he said. See what I mean about him believing in me?

That’s how I found myself visiting a goat farm on the outskirts of Chicago. Several goats came rushing up, butting against me, nibbling at my clothes. Not quite the pastoral experience I’d enjoyed in Arizona but typical goat behavior. I surveyed the herd. There were plenty of candidates. Then one goat caught my eye. Brown. Flop-eared. Only eight weeks old. He wanted nothing to do with me. When I stepped toward him, he backed away, determined. But I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

“He’s the one,” I told the farmer.

I named the goat Wally Bentley and stayed with my daughter in the Chicago suburbs while I was training him. I was sure we’d bond just like the little white goat and I had. But Wally had other ideas. Before I could consider taking him to schools or nursing homes, I needed to teach him to be calm around people, never to nip or be aggressive.

I tried to work with Wally the way I’d trained goats in California, rewarding good behavior with treats. Nothing doing. I put him on a leash. He refused to budge. I sat next to him and tried to pet him. He pulled back, his whole body tense. Not exactly a comfort animal.

Was I wrong about where God was leading me? I’d been so sure Wally was the one. Maybe the whole idea of using goats for therapy was crazy.

Finally, after weeks of trying to get through to Wally, I gave up. I plopped down in the grass. I didn’t reach out to him. Didn’t talk to him. Didn’t even make eye contact. Have it your way, I thought.

I don’t know how much time passed. I was aimlessly plucking at the grass, ready to call it a day, when I felt something soft and furry rub my arm. Not aggressively but gently. Soothingly. Then Wally nuzzled his head against mine. “Hey, buddy,” I said. I stroked his coat, and he leaned into me. A feeling of oneness, of pure love, enveloped me. Like that day in Arizona when I’d been at my lowest. There too I’d let myself be vulnerable. Let the goats come to me. Trusting them. And they’d responded.

After that, Wally and I spent many more hours learning together. He grew completely relaxed around me. I trained him to walk on a leash, to shake hands and roll over. I bought a blue baseball hat for him to wear so that he would know when he was working. I took him to parks and playgrounds, exposing him to all kinds of people and situations. He was sensitive, caring, loving—God-given traits I’d only had to encourage.

Six years later, Wally has comforted scores of people in the Chicago area. I call my business The Mending Muse. I take him to schools and nursing homes. I hold goat yoga events with Wally and some of his friends from the farm. But my favorite moments are one-on-one sessions with Wally and someone who’s hurting. Like I was. There’s no agenda, no prescribed regimen. Just time spent connecting with a goat—and reconnecting with joy. I call it the goat effect.

Not long ago, we had a session with a young woman who’d called wanting help with her anxiety.

We met at a park. I let Wally, wearing his baseball hat, off leash. He nuzzled the young woman, and she reflexively jerked back.

“You have to trust him,” I said. “I’ve been there. My life was a mess. Until a goat saved me.”

Slowly she lowered herself to the grass and took a deep breath. Wally rubbed gently against her, focused entirely on comforting her. Her shoulders relaxed, and she let out a soft sigh, a smile dawning on her face. The goat effect.

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Which came first: the chicken or the egg? For me, there’s no question. My chickens came first, and in many ways, they still do. You see, my “girls,” as I call the hens, changed my life. And not only by giving me more eggs than I knew what to do with.

Before they came along, I’d worked on Wall Street and lived the big city life, a blur of five-star restaurants and cocktail parties, but it wasn’t for me. I’d grown up across the street from my grandparents’ chicken farm in Massachusetts, and my parents had kept a few chickens in our own backyard.

My great- and great-great-grandparents had been chicken keepers in Finland. So when my husband, Mark, and I decided to move to a farm in rural Maine and raise 12 hens of our own, I finally felt at home.

Hens require a certain amount of sunlight to lay eggs, and some farms expose their hens to artificial light to keep them laying year-round. I prefer to do things naturally. That means I cook a lot of egg dishes while the hens are laying at full capacity during the longer days of spring and summer.

I preserve cartonfuls to use while the girls are on holiday—because I need my Christmas eggnog! I’d love to tell you I use an old family recipe brought over from Finland, but the truth is, I used tips from magazines and TV chefs to create my own egg-cellent version.

Other family traditions endure. When my grandparents emigrated to the United States, they continued to honor Saint Lucia’s Day on December 13 as the start of Christmas season. Saint Lucia was said to have visited persecuted Christians hiding in the catacombs, lighting her way with a candlelit wreath on her head, her hands laden with provisions.

Our family wove the Saint Lucia custom of girls in white dresses carrying candles and wreaths into our Christmas celebrations. As a girl, I sang in the choir at the candlelit Christmas Eve service at my grandmother’s church. My favorite hymn was “O Holy Night,” when one star stood out among the others.

That first Christmas in our new home, I decorated with the candles and wreaths of Saint Lucia. We strung garland inside and lights outside. The only house in sight had to say merry Christmas! I had an extra wreath and hung it on the chicken coop.

Mark and I sat down to enjoy a glass of eggnog at the window, our handiwork complete. I looked out at the chicken coop and that one extra wreath. “But we can’t see our Christmas lights from in here,” I said.

Problem solved when I strung the coop with twinkling lights. My girls clucked a little bit but didn’t seem to mind my sprucing up the place. It seemed a shame not to have a tree in their run. So I cut down a sapling from the woods and decorated it with apples, a nutritious chicken treat.

In Finland, it’s tradition to feed wild birds on Christmas morning. Families don’t eat until the birds do. My chickens definitely benefit from my heritage. One year, I spent an entire afternoon stringing a long garland of popcorn, grapes, raisins and walnuts. I won’t do that again: It took the girls exactly four seconds to peck the precious garland to the ground.

Now I stick to hard-boiled eggs, radishes, cranberries and Brussels sprouts, which are much easier to string and last a lot longer to keep the hens entertained. For hardy tree decorations, I fill pine cones with peanut butter and roll them in sunflower seeds. Sometimes I make edible coconut oil ornaments with pops of color from fruits and veggies.

My hardworking girls have as merry a Christmas as Mark and I do. A walk out to the coop on a snowy day is magical. Even better on a clear night. Mark was in the Navy and knows how to navigate by the stars. He points out the constellations. We talk about the wise men who let the heavens guide them to the straw-filled stable where Jesus was born that “O Holy Night.” I like to imagine that chickens were there too.

Try Lisa’s recipe for Spiced Eggnog at home!

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2. Dogs pick up on our anxiety. When you’re taking a pet to the vet, don’t use baby talk and coddle it. This amps up their own anxieties.

3. Pets communicate with us through voice, body language and overall demeanor. You have an obligation to connect with your pet in any way you can.

4. Understand your pet, and allow it to be what it is. Retrievers want to retrieve. Let them retrieve. Terriers want to dig. Let them dig.

5. Never allow your pet to get into extreme distress. Use distractions, a compression shirt for dogs, calming music or prescribed medication, if needed.

Read Dr. Becker’s inspiring story about confronting his own fears

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I went to talk to the shelter worker. “She just came in,” the woman told me. “Her name is Honey. Five months old. The owner said she couldn’t take care of her anymore.”

The worker opened Honey’s cage and let me pick her up. I stroked her silky fur and cooed. She stopped shaking. The two of us went to the side yard, where I picked up a ball and tossed it. I sat down to watch Honey race after the ball, ears flopping all the way. She came flying back toward me, ball in mouth, and leaped right into my lap. That was that. I filled out the paperwork and took Honey home.

She followed me like a shadow from the very first day. She loved to snuggle on my lap while we watched logs crackle in the fireplace. The only thing better was when she kept my feet warm by sleeping at the foot of the bed.

That October morning last year I decided to take Honey with me while I ran some errands. My wife was away for a few days and I hated the thought of leaving Honey alone. I grabbed my keys and made sure I had my nitroglycerin tablets. I opened the 4Runner’s door. “C’mon, Honey. Let’s go.” She jumped into the cab and settled down on the passenger seat. I got behind the wheel and started the SUV.

It’s always tricky turning around. We live in a remote area up in the hills outside San Rafael, California, surrounded by towering redwoods. You have to drive up the mountain in low gear to get to our driveway, which is barely wide enough for one car and ends at a steep drop-off.

I twisted around and backed up slowly. Just then, a flash of sunlight blinded me. I put my hand up to shield my eyes. I felt a jolt as the left rear section of the SUV dropped. Oh, no! The edge! The car slipped in the soft soil, and rolled. I hadn’t put on my seat belt yet; I was waiting to finish turning around. Now I tumbled inside the SUV as it somersaulted down the ravine. Branches snapped. The 4Runner rolled faster. Four, five, six rolls until I heard a horrible crunch. A giant limb plunged through the roof, hit my leg and chest, then embedded in the dash. We landed upside down. I felt a searing pain in my chest. I was pinned. I looked over to find Honey. She was still in the passenger seat and, thank God, she was okay. Shook-up, though.

“Sorry, girl,” I gasped. I tried to see if I could unpin myself from behind the wheel. I cried out from the pain. It was no use. Something was wrong with my leg. I grabbed my cell phone and dialed 911. Please, God, let the call go through. The phone beeped twice. Just as I’d feared, I couldn’t get a signal at the bottom of this ravine. Now what?

I figured we were at least 50 feet down. Robin, my closest neighbor, lived a quarter mile uphill from me, and had her own driveway. There was no reason she or anyone else would drive up to my house. And even if someone did, they wouldn’t see the wreck.

My chest hammered. Calm down! I told myself. I had stents in my heart, after all; I couldn’t afford to panic. I groped in my shirt pocket and pulled out the nitro tablets. I took one out, slipped it under my tongue and took a deep breath. My heartbeat slowed. But I still had pain in my chest.

Must’ve busted some ribs.

Honey whimpered. At least I could get her out of here. There was a hole in the driver’s side rear window. It was small, but just maybe…“C’mon, girl,” I said. Painfully, I reached over and picked her up. I gently put her head through the hole, careful not to get her too close to a jagged edge. I got her fanny through and gave her a pat. “Go home, baby.” She jumped to the ground and raced up the side of the ravine.

My heart pounded like a jackhammer, so I took another pill. Maybe the horn. I tried, but couldn’t reach around the tree limb. I shouted, but knew that wouldn’t make any difference. No one would hear.

I sat there for hours. My ribs throbbed. By now I knew for sure I’d busted some. The pain was so bad. And I couldn’t feel anything in my left leg. If I ever got out of this mess, I’d probably lose it. I’d be a one-legged guy with a bum heart. And a cocker spaniel. Honey. Had she made it up the ravine safely? Had she found her way home? She hardly knew the area. What would happen to her?

The last bit of light filtering through the leaves faded away. Now, with the sun set, the air turned cold. I shivered. Maybe Honey will get help. Who was I kidding? Stuff like that only happened in the movies. “What is it, Lassie? Is Jimmy in trouble?” Honey was probably lost in the woods. And I’d gotten her into this mess! I felt my heart start racing again. Help me stay calm, Lord. You’ve given me a good life. A great wife. A great little dog. Watch over them if it’s my time. And, if not, please help me out of this. So tired. My pulse was weakening. All I had to do was close my eyes and…

Slam! I jolted awake at the noise. Was that a car door? “Help!” I shouted with all my strength. “Help!”

A voice answered, “Who needs help?” It was Robin. My neighbor!

“It’s me, Mike,” I yelled back. “Down here. Call 911!”

It seemed only minutes later I heard the throb of helicopter blades overhead. The rescue crew landed and made their way down to me. It took them 45 minutes to cut me out of the SUV and get me up the ravine. We flew to the hospital in the helicopter.

I got all sorts of tests, X rays, an IV. I’d broken five ribs, and there was internal bleeding and some serious muscle damage in my leg. “It’ll take a while to recover,” an ER doctor told me, “but you’re going to be okay.”

“What about Honey?” I asked Robin.

“She’s fine,” Robin said before they wheeled me off to my room.

I wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while, so the next day a friend brought Honey to the hospital. She got right up next to me on the bed and snuggled close. With her there, it was like my pain disappeared. “It was the strangest thing,” Robin told me later. “I got home from work and Honey was waiting for me. She got all agitated and ran in circles, like she was trying to tell me something. She was frantic.” Robin figured she’d bring Honey back to my house, and that’s when she heard me yell. How that little dog knew what to do and where to go is beyond me. She’d never been over to Robin’s house.

And here’s the kicker, maybe. One day not long ago I was looking through her papers, which the shelter had sent to me. She had a different name originally. Can you guess? Angel. But I already knew that.

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Really delighted to be part of Fear Free, which we look to really take the “pet” out of petrified in all situations, whether it’s going to the veterinary practice, going to see the groomer, going to be boarded. We know that pets have rich emotions just like humans do, so we want pets to not just be physically healthy but emotionally healthy as well.

What can a pet parent do to make a veterinary visit fear-free? The worst thing any pet parent feels is like they’re hurting their pet by trying to help it. It’s sick, it’s injured. You need their teeth cleaned. You need their vaccinations and you think, “It’s so stressful for them. Maybe I’ll just wait.”

The veterinarian is the true pet health expert and there’s no substitute for regular veterinary visits, either for wellness or the first signs of an illness or first moments of an accident. So that’s why you need to go with a veterinarian that’s trained in Fear Free. And in Fear Free, when we go to do a procedure, like we’re giving a vaccination, we’re giving injection, antibiotics, we’re examining them, we’re doing a blood draw. We go very careful. We talk to them, we use a distraction technique.

So if I was going to examine a wound on QT Pi or give him a vaccine, we would actually have a little silicone mat with a little smiley face in Easy Cheese or peanut butter or whipped cream, and while he’s distracted licking this off, that’s when we would examine the wound or give the vaccination. Most of the time, they don’t even know something’s happened.

How can a pet parent alleviate anxiety in their pets? One thing is to desensitize them. And QT Pi here, he was a shelter dog, and we had to do exactly this with him. What usually triggers the separation anxiety, putting your coat on, the jingling of keys, going outside starting your car. So what you do is you put your coat on and then you take it back off. Then you give them a treat. You do your keys, you jingle your keys, you put them back. You go outside, you start your car up, you come back inside. So you desensitize them to those triggers.

Also there are pheromones, so there are some sick pheromones you can give a dog. So you put a plug-in of the pheromone in your house, or you can spritz their bedding with it. There are some nutraceuticals you can use; talk to your veterinarian about it. Some of these are products that mimic the milk that a mother gives their puppies. And then there’s pharmacy solutions.

What is the best way to distract a pet in a stressful situation? Number one, your emergency call is always “come”. Above anything else, you need to have a dog that’ll come to you. You may be out for a walk and there’s a big dog coming down the road. There’s a fire engine coming recklessly. So what I recommend on the word “come” is to have some treat that you give that they don’t get any time else. A good example would be warm deli turkey, little slices of hot dogs or something like that, so they know how to come.

So how do you help pets deal with loud noises? Let’s talk about thunderstorms first. For most dogs, they… Cats very seldom get thunderstorm phobias, But most dogs, they get a buildup of static electricity in their coat before they hear the rumbling of thunder, before they hear the flashes of light. And so if there’s thunderstorms in the forecast, you can take an unscented fabric softener sheet and just wipe it along the whole trunk of your dog’s body. And in about 30% of the dogs they won’t have a thunderstorm phobia just because they don’t get the buildup of static electricity.

QT Pi here is really freaked out by thunderstorms. So if there are thunderstorms in the forecast or let’s say it’s July 2nd, we either give him a product called Sileo, or we get generic xanax or alprazolam. And literally, if he’s on alprazolam, that thunder can hit right outside the house here and shake this whole house, and it does absolutely nothing except give him a very robust appetite. One other thing too, thundershirts work in about 60% of dogs. And how do those work? They’re a compression garment. All of us have seen a baby swaddled. Why do they swaddle a baby? It comforts them. And one more thing is pheromones. Again, pheromones are like a chilling mist. It works throughout a dog’s life.

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My golden and I have our differences of opinion from time to time. Sometimes she might want to take one path in the woods while I planned on another. Or in the city, where we are now, she might prefer one side of the street while I like the other. In any event, we usually work things out. 

I think I’ve forgotten some of my city dog-walking skills having been away so much, especially being alert to discarded street edibles a dog like Gracie is always on the lookout for. Pizza crusts are a particular favorite, or a napkin someone who had barbeque wiped their hands with and didn’t bother to deposit in a trash bin. Gracie is trained to drop when told to do so, if sad-eyed and reluctantly. There is one exception: chicken bones. 

Walking on West 29th she got to one before I could stop her. “Gracie, drop!” Instead, she turned her back to me so it would be harder for me to get to her jaws. But I did. “Drop!” Total noncompliance. 

It was either a wing or a part of a drumstick, either of which she could choke on or swallow and possibly perforate an intestine. So, I tried to pry her jaws apart but no force on earth was going to make her let go. In the process one of my fingers was lacerated. She didn’t bite me. She would NEVER do that. Besides, that would involve unclenching her jaws and that wasn’t going to happen. I’d simply gotten my finger in the way of her securing the chicken bone.

I howled. My finger was bleeding all over the place including on her muzzle which gave her a particularly fearsome appearance. While she masticated the bone, I used a poop bag to wrap my wound and angrily dragged her home calling her a bad dog all the way, something I never ever say to her. 

Once in the apartment I cleaned and bandaged my finger, waving it in her face. It was her dinnertime, the highlight of her day, but I was in no hurry to feed her. I answered a few emails, puttered around and finally served her dinner with none of the usual fanfare. 

Practically the only piece of furniture in my living room is a large wraparound leather couch. For the duration of the evening Gracie curled up at one end and I slouched at the other, neither of us looking at the other. At bedtime Gracie took to her bed in the living room instead of sleeping on the floor beneath my side of the bed. Be that way, I thought. Lord, I prayed, you know I’m right. 

When my alarm went off in the morning, I hit the snooze button. But I didn’t snooze much. A cold, wet nose nudged my dangling hand. 

Yes, it was time for her breakfast but that wasn’t what this was about. This was my dog being the bigger person and making peace. Me? I’d let the sun go down on my anger. 

After we ate, we walked over to the Hudson and sat on a bench watching the river. This part of the river evokes so many memories for me, of all the time we spent here with Millie, Gracie’s predecessor, especially after Millie got sick. Julee and I would bring her here, where she loved to bark at the big cruise ships steaming past, passengers on deck waving to her and taking pictures. I let all those memories come back to me. I didn’t fight them.  

That night I took Gracie out to dinner at one of the little bistros that have sprung up in our neighborhood. Since the pandemic everyone in Manhattan has outdoor dining space where dogs are allowed. I ordered her favorite, steak frites, and she got a few bites. The waiter brought her a bowl of water and after I paid the check, I slipped a dollar bill under Gracie’s water bowl as a gesture of her appreciation. In the morning we’d head back up to the hills. 

There was no doubt why both Gracie and I were dealing with difficult emotions and maybe not quite ourselves. I knew Gracie forgave me for my anger. I hoped and prayed God did too. 

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QT Pi is my heart dog, the one who always wants to be by my side. A Chihuahua–Jack Russell–dachshund mix, he is two dogs long and a half dog tall. I’d adopted him from a litter of shelter puppies that had distemper. He had spent a week in intensive care at Washington State University College of Veterinary Medicine, my alma mater. Afterward, I had taken care of him at home.

Now I’d brought QT Pi to the clinic for the first time. He was there for a dental cleaning, a procedure that required general anesthesia. When I walked in and tried to hand him over to my colleague, he clung to me, panting and shivering. I kissed his nose. “You’re going to be fine,” I said, wishing he understood. He whimpered as I peeled him away and stepped outside.

I found myself shaking too, and it wasn’t just that I was anxious because there’s a risk of an adverse reaction anytime an animal is put under anesthesia. The fear that my little dog felt hit me someplace deep inside. What was going on here? I took a slow breath in and out. The last time I felt like this was at that lecture….

I’d wanted to be a veterinarian ever since I was a young boy growing up on a dairy farm in Idaho. I graduated from veterinary school in 1980 and went into practice in southern Idaho. My career grew. My wife, Teresa, and I moved halfway up a mountain in northern Idaho in 1997, to a horse ranch that we call Almost Heaven Ranch.

In 1996, I received the wonderful opportunity to become the veterinary correspondent for Good Morning America. I joined the team at the Dr. Oz Show in 2009.

I’d been practicing veterinary medicine for almost three decades by then, and I was thinking about retiring. Then at a conference that year, I went to a lecture by famed veterinary behaviorist Dr. Karen Overall. It had been a busy conference, and I was tired. I stood up, thinking I’d slip out early.

“Fear is the worst thing a social species can experience,” I heard Dr. Overall say. I stopped short.

“It causes permanent damage to the brain.” I turned and sat back down.

Dr. Overall explained that pets are like one-year-old children. She asked us to imagine being taken against our will, having no control, being unable to escape, feeling pain that we couldn’t understand. “Think back to a time as a child when you felt manhandled, threatened or abused,” she said.

The memories came flooding back, memories I thought I’d put behind me. My two sisters, brother and I were in the car returning home from a trip to the grocery store with our mom. We chanted a little verse we’d made up: “Daddy’s in a huffy puff. Daddy’s in a huffy puff.”

We were too young to understand, but our father was in the grip of two diseases that would go undiagnosed and untreated until later in his life: alcoholism and bipolar disorder. We never knew what kind of state we’d find him in.

The house was quiet as we unpacked the groceries. I thanked my lucky stars that he was nowhere around. Later that night, as I huddled in my bedroom just off the kitchen, I heard Mom and Dad fighting. Again.

“Outta my way!” Dad yelled. The angry words escalated. Things crashed, and Mom screamed. I shivered under the covers. “I’m going to kill you!” Dad bellowed. I could feel his rage through the thin walls. I was so frightened, I couldn’t move. Mom started crying. A door slammed. The fight was over, for now. But I knew there would be more.

I’d lived with that fear throughout my childhood. In the car when Dad drove, zipping down dirt roads at a hundred miles an hour while I clung to my seat for dear life. Or when I played in the fields, barely old enough to tie my own shoes, and Dad would push me up onto the driver’s seat of the hay baler, and laugh when I screamed, terrified, because I couldn’t handle the huge machine.

Traumatic childhood experiences can teach resilience. I became a high achiever, striving for top grades in school and, later, for the biggest market share for the veterinary hospitals I owned. I was very competitive and never wanted to show weakness.

Even in my personal life, I was driven. Teresa and I married in my third year of veterinary school, and we built the stable, happy family I’d longed for as a boy. A pastor friend helped me learn to accept the pain of my past. I came to trust in the love of God, the father who would never fail me. My positive, high-energy, can-do self shielded my vulnerabilities so well that I almost forgot I had them.

Until Dr. Overall’s lecture drew them to the surface again.

I’d always done my best for my patients. Looking back, however, I hadn’t always recognized the signs of fear: shivering, shaking, yawning, panting, salivating, leaning away, glancing at the door, even biting.

When I’d seen a dog lie perfectly motionless on the exam table, I thought he was calm. Dr. Overall explained that he was likely paralyzed with fear. The way I had been the night I’d heard my dad yelling that he was going to kill my mom. Just recalling it made me feel shaky, as vulnerable as a child again.

If fear still had such a hold on me even though I could talk to a counselor and lean on the comfort of my faith, how must it be for helpless animals? The animals whose suffering I’d promised to prevent and relieve when I took my veterinarian’s oath?

I had to face the truth: Although I had the best of intentions, there were times I had actually caused my patients trauma. Back in veterinary school in the late 1970s, we didn’t receive training in animals’ emotional well-being. The focus was on their physical health. Even pain management was pretty basic.

I knew God had nudged me to stay at that lecture for a reason. Genesis says God gave us humans dominion over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air and every living thing that moves upon the earth. He entrusted animals to our protection and care. I wanted to do better by them. “Show me a better way to treat animals,” I asked God. “A way free of fear.”

I couldn’t retire yet. I had more to learn, to do. I talked to and studied the work of veterinary behaviorists. Alleviating fear would improve the well-being of both pets and their people.

Not only could fear and anxiety in cats and dogs mask other health problems, but these emotions were also at the root of most aggressive behaviors. Behaviors that could destroy the human-animal bond and lead to abandonment, relinquishment or euthanasia.

I experimented using treats and toys to distract pets from procedures. I researched FAS (fear, anxiety and stress) pheromones, chemical signals animals give off that send a message to others of the same species.

That’s what QT Pi must have sensed from the other dogs at the clinic entrance, I thought now, as I waited for my dear little dog to be done with his dental procedure. He was so bonded to me that he’d picked up on my fear, anxiety and stress too. God was nudging me again, as he had at the lecture, reminding me of my vulnerability in order to galvanize me into action. It was time to put my ideas into practice.

The next week, when QT Pi and I returned to the clinic for his vaccinations, I made sure the outside area was cleaned to remove FAS chemicals and then spritzed with pheromones that would evoke a calming response. Because he’d balked at the front door, I brought in QT Pi through the side door, where he hadn’t formed any unpleasant associations. There was no shivering, no trying to escape!

In the exam room, he squirmed at the sight of the big metal table, so I set him on the floor and got down beside him. His ears perked, and his tail wagged. I’d brought him in hungry, so he’d respond better to food rewards. As my colleague readied the syringe, I used a can of spray cheese to write “QT Pi” on a bumpy rubber pad called a licky mat. He licked his name off the mat and barely noticed when he got his injection. I hugged him close, and he kissed my face. What a difference!

From then on, I was committed to implementing my new techniques and teaching them to others. I worked with veterinary behaviorists to enhance the emotional well-being of pets in all aspects of their lives. In 2016, I formally launched the Fear Free Certification Program, an online course designed to help veterinary professionals eliminate fear, anxiety and stress and create a more rewarding experience for all.

Today more than two thirds of all veterinary students graduate Fear Free–certified. Plus, we have Fear Free programs for pet professionals (such as groomers and dog sitters), shelters and pet parents.

None of this would have happened if God hadn’t put me where I would hear what I needed to hear and feel what I needed to feel. Reliving the pain and fear of my past showed me that vulnerability is a strength, not a weakness. It gave me a deeper empathy for and understanding of the animals God has given us to love and care for—animals who, like my QT Pi, love and care for us right back.

Read Dr. Becker’s Fear Free tips for pet parents

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The post Dr. Marty Becker: How Facing His Fears Made Him a Better Veterinarian appeared first on Guideposts.

Why won’t she return my text messages? I wondered.

Noelle—I called her Noe—was my youngest grandchild. From the moment I laid eyes on her as a newborn and she gazed back at me, Noe captured my heart.

For years, Noe and her family lived close by, and she and I spent a lot of time together. It made my day to see Noe’s face light up whenever I arrived. She parted her long blonde hair straight down the middle. A perfect frame for her adorable grin.

Then my husband and I moved to a different part of the San Francisco Bay Area. Mileage-wise, it wasn’t an impossible distance. But with traffic it now took up to two hours to drive to Noe’s house.

Combine that with the pandemic and my regular visits with Noe came to an abrupt end. The last time I saw her, she was beside herself with excitement about the latest addition to her life: Golden, a baby chick her mom bought for her to raise in the backyard. Golden was just like her name, a fluffy ball of bright yellow down, soft as a dandelion.

For a while, Noe and I kept up via text messages and occasional phone calls. Gradually, her text replies took longer to arrive. Phone calls became brief and a bit awkward.

“How’s online school going?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“What’s your favorite subject?”

“Dunno.”

Nothing I tried seemed to break through Noe’s sudden wall of indifference. What was I doing wrong? Was she okay? Did she even miss me?

Noe got five more chickens during lockdown. I asked about them every time we talked. But caring for the chickens seemed more interesting to her than talking to me. She was often busy with them and didn’t come to the phone when I called the house.

Was I being supplanted in my granddaughter’s heart by a bunch of…chickens?

My cell phone pinged. Noe! But there were no words in the text. Just photos. Noe on her bike with a chicken in her lap. Noe on her scooter with another chicken. Noe and a chicken watching TV on the couch.

Humph. Those were all things she and I used to do together. God, I prayed, I don’t want to be jealous of a flock of chickens. Show me how to connect with my granddaughter.

Months passed with barely a word from Noe. At last, everyone in our family was eligible for a Covid vaccine and my husband and I could schedule a visit to Noe’s house. I couldn’t wait. I pictured scooping up my beloved granddaughter in my arms like I did when she was little.

Then I remembered the chickens. She would probably be too busy with them to bother giving me a hug.

We pulled up to Noe’s house. Out she came with the rest of her family.

Who was this girl? My eyes widened. Last time I saw Noe, she was 11. Nearly two years later, she was a teenager on the way to becoming a young woman. She was taller. She looked older. Her face wore an expression that somehow seemed to combine independence with acute self-consciousness.

She reminded me of her mom, my daughter Kris, when she entered adolescence. Overnight it seemed Kris switched from sitting by my side and sharing her thoughts to keeping everything to herself and telling me to butt out. She was present yet absent, her mind elsewhere.

All at once it was clear. I hadn’t been replaced by chickens. Our relationship had not been severed by the pandemic. I hadn’t done anything wrong.

Noe was a teenager. Her lack of communication with adults was totally normal for someone her age. It was me who’d been holding on to unrealistic and outdated expectations. I needed to let go and embrace this new stage in my granddaughter’s life.

“Show me your chickens,” I said to Noe. She promptly led me to the backyard, where the henhouse was.

“How in the world do you tell them apart?” I asked when I saw the half dozen fluffy birds pecking contentedly around the yard.

“Easy, Grandma,” she said. “They all have different personalities.”

One by one she introduced me to her feathered friends, giving detailed descriptions of their preferences and antics. It was more words than we’d exchanged in a year.

“That’s Beep Beep,” she said as an especially friendly chicken bobbed its way to my feet. “She’s the sweetest. Bock Bock over there is the leader and likes to strut the coop and boss around the other hens. Missa here gets jealous. That one’s Golden. She’s my favorite but she’s kind of fearful…”

Noe went on. Suddenly she said, “I know, let’s take the chickens for a walk. I’ll let you walk Golden.”

I looked at her curiously. Chickens go for walks? Apparently they do.

Noe draped halters over the chickens and handed me a leash. Golden cocked her head at me as if to say, “I’m ready.”

We walked through the neighborhood, attracting a few quizzical looks. Noe watched over the chickens like—well, a mother hen. The longer we walked, the more she opened up about the rest of her life. How boring it was attending online school. How much she missed seeing her friends spontaneously.

“This is fun,” she said, flashing one of those Noe grins I so loved.

It sure was. I said a silent thank-you to God. And to the chickens. You never know who’s going to teach you a lesson in letting go and accepting change. I looked forward to many more walks and talks with my granddaughter—and her adorable, feathered friends.

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The post How Chickens Brought Her Closer to Her Teenage Granddaughter appeared first on Guideposts.

It all began in 2011, when Ryan Phillips switched to a vegan lifestyle to improve his health and developed a passion for ending the suffering of animals farmed as food. Then a family asked if he could take in a breeder pig, and he couldn’t say no, despite living on the second floor of a Williamsburg, Virginia, condo with a no-pets policy. Within a few years, Ryan was caring for pigs Pumpkin, Charlotte and Millie; Tesla the rabbit; Emmie the Yorkie; and Beatrice the chicken—all in the condo.

Fast forward to October 2018, when Ryan bought land 10 minutes down the road and established Life With Pigs Farm Animal Sanctuary. He saved his first dairy cow the following month. She had a twin brother, and a heifer with a bull twin will most likely be infertile and unable to produce milk. The farmer had marked her to be killed, but his daughter begged him to let Ryan pick her up. Her dad agreed. Ryan named the three-day-old calf Jenna in honor of the farmer’s daughter and called his sanctuary friends for advice on keeping this scrawny but determined calf alive.

Meanwhile, more than 2,000 miles west, in Arizona, another animal-lover named Mallory had been following Ryan’s journey on social media. She loved seeing photos of Ryan snuggling with Jenna. It was clear that this cow considered Ryan, who slept in the barn with her during her tentative early days, to be her dad. In 2019, Ryan posted about wanting to save a local cow from abuse, and Mallory jumped in to help. She spent weeks coordinating the rescue with Ryan by phone. Eventually, Mallory flew east to meet the animals at Life With Pigs—and, of course, Ryan, whom she quickly fell for.

With her human-like behavior and goofy nature—sticking her giant head in every window until someone came out to play, for example—Jenna charmed Mallory further. Soon Mallory, who’d lived in Arizona her entire life, decided to stay in Virginia with Ryan and his growing animal sanctuary for good.

“I had a crush on a guy I saw on the internet hugging his cow,” she says on the Life With Pigs website. “I never imagined I’d end up spending my life with him.”

Ryan popped the question in the cow barn, with Jenna nudging his leg to remind him to get down on one knee. The couple traded cow rings in a farm ceremony as “best cow” Jenna and “cow of honor” Maisie led a wedding party of three dogs, three pigs and a gaggle of chickens and turkeys. “Jenna played such an important part in our meeting that we agreed she had to be front and center,” Ryan says.

Though she adores Mallory, Jenna still demands attention from her dad. “She’ll put her two horns on my waist and push her head up against me while I hug her neck,” says Ryan. “She can tell when you’re sad and will rub against you. The pigs will too. One of the biggest things I’ve learned is all animals have their own personalities, and they all know how to give and receive love.”

These days, Ryan and Mallory are busy caring for the 25 animals at Life With Pigs as they continue their mission of educating the public on animal agriculture. Their newest family member is Annie, a blind cow, who relies on Jenna for support. We’re sure Jenna’s up for the job—as long as Ryan is close by.

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