"Be kind when asserting boundaries." -Birdie the Dog
In today's installment of "Tales from the Tails," my dog teaches us a big life lesson in gentleness.
Growing up, it never would have occurred to me that a little old dog would be my soul mate. But then I met Birdie.
My wife and I brought Birdie into our home in March of 2020, at the beginning of Covid, when the shelters were overrun and there was a plea to the public to adopt immediately, if at all possible. Of course, the shelters are always overrun, but Covid meant that people couldn’t visit the shelters to help empty them. It was a total emergency, and even though we already had two dogs and a cat, we felt we had to do this. In retrospect, having three dogs and a cat is just plain silly, yet getting Birdie remains one of the best decisions we’ve ever made.
Birdie was (around) 13 when we got her last year, a spunky and soulful little chihuahua with hardly any teeth and an extra-big heart. And by extra-big heart, I mean that in all the metaphorical senses, but also literally: Birdie—and our other elderly rescued chihuahua, George—both have serious heart conditions that are common with tiny dogs and managed with a mix of medication and regular visits to the doggie cardiologist.
The first night we got Birdie, we tucked her into one of the dozen dog beds that peppered our one-bedroom West Hollywood apartment. This bed was the most luxe of all of them and placed directly beside our bed, in literal reach of our petting hand. But as soon as we tucked her in and climbed into our own bed, Birdie immediately popped up, ran as fast as she could up the doggie stairs at the end of our mattress, and pawed at the blanket between us. We lifted it up and she climbed in, sleeping right in the middle—where she still settles every night.
Prior to that fateful day when this little dog wiggled her way into my bed and promptly my heart—spending all of her waking (and sleeping) time beside me—we believe she was the dog companion to someone experiencing houselessness. When Birdie came down with a cold of some kind, that person left her at the shelter. A loving volunteer at the shelter noticed Birdie shaking in the back of a crate, not visible to the passerby, so she put her in a much more prominent position (which I am grateful for, but also feel sad for anyone who had to be moved out of sight). At that point, thanks to the higher visibility, an incredible rescue—Walk Me Home Rescue—took her in, got her veterinary attention, and then found a wonderful foster home for her. By the time Los Angeles County made that very public plea for help to place all the dogs and cats, regular people weren’t allowed into the shelters. We had rescued little George a few months prior at a shelter, so we knew the scene well by that point, but our only option by then was to open up a place through a rescue so that the rescue could get someone else from the shelter (rescues were still allowed into the shelters during certain hours).
Some chihuahuas are very person-bonded, and if you meet Birdie for even a second, you’ll see that she picked me as her magnet. Though she loves my wife very much, I am undoubtedly her main attachment (Stella Cat, however—who I rescued long before I met Moore—has chosen Moore as her person, and I’m only the tiniest bit jealous). I hold that coveted position as Birdie’s Person with immense pride and great honor, while also feeling so sad for her when I think of the other attachments she’s had in the past who are no longer part of her doggie world. My heart hurts thinking of her broken heart, her confusion, her discomfort from her past experiences.
And yet, at the same time—as is true with my other two dogs and cat, plus former animals I’ve called family—I am beyond inspired (blown away, really) when I think of how bravely and boldly they trust and love again, despite all they have known.
I used to always speak about my old pit bull, Rose, who left us last December, with true awe. She had been left tied to a fence, where she was found days later and snuck into a “shelter” that killed all pit bulls. But some loving workers there snuck her out and, eventually, she became (at least partly) my girl (she was actually my ex-wife’s, but we had her together for a glorious decade of puppy love). I am without words when I think of our babies’ stories and how, despite everything, they stay so firmly planted in the moment.
Which brings me to Birdie’s darling little tail.
It’s a cute stump of a thing, way shorter than George Dog’s or Lucy Dog’s. And it’s super-duper sensitive, just like my girl (and, let’s face it: like me). But my wife and I have to touch it pretty much daily since little Birdie wears a diaper by day and a onesie (with diaper) by night. And there are times when she just doesn’t want her tail touched, no matter how gentle you are about it.
Believe me, I get it. I, too, sometimes have no interest in physical contact for reasons that are entirely my business, just as Birdie’s tail—and her rules around it—are her business. In order to assert her boundary, she’ll sometimes growl or bark, and hide that cute that little tail as much as she can. Stay off, she’s saying.
We listen as much as we can to our little dog, doing our best to make her feel safe and so incredibly loved. So when she asserts her boundaries to not touch her tail, we approach her with gentleness and sweet cuddling, leaving her onesie ‘til later.
Here’s where the life lesson comes in: My sweet little girl will lick my face just a moment later, albeit tentatively. She’ll warm up to me, even with a furrowed brow.
We muddle through the moment together, finding our trust and connection again.
But we do it with unconditional love, and we do it with kindness and gentleness.
These are some of my personal fundamental needs, the things I work on the most. How can we assert our boundaries with our loved ones while still allowing ourselves the opportunity to be gentle and open? How can we trust our loves to hear us the right way and then hold us the right way, the way that doesn’t hurt?
I have, admittedly, been on both ends of boundaries-gone-wrong throughout my life—asserting or receiving painful, misfired, or just plain unkind limits. Get (or stay) the fuck away from me, is the bottom line. And when it’s delivered with that kind of edge, it always lands with a thud.
So how can we each learn and grow, inspired by the ways our animals can trust again? From the ways they let us in? And—in the case of Birdie, anyway—from the gentle-but-clear ways boundaries that are asserted?
I write this newsletter today as an invitation in. I hope you join me, and Birdie, in recognizing when boundaries are necessary, absolutely making them clear, but doing so with radical kindness.
Sometimes, it’s the only thing we’ve got.
xo,
jazz
Something I’m Jazzed About
This Thursday, as part of The Factory Farming Awareness Coalition’s summer speaker series, I am giving a talk on “Media for Change.” I hope to see you there.