The Dog Blog with Kathryn Socie

Alternatives to Pill Popping for the Phobic

By Kathryn Socie, 1-29-09

	Weez! Weez! Weez!

“She’s been on prozac and estrogen for a few months now and after years of wrestling with her issues, these drugs have been heaven for us,” said a woman at a recent dinner party.  She paused for a moment and exclaimed: “Its crazy, it sounds like I should be talking about my Grandmother, but, nope, my dog!” Our four-legged best friends are tracking their human counter-parts in the rate at which they too are popping psychoactive drugs to help with a slew of similar disorders.  Be it a variety of anxiety behaviors, obsessive-compulsive disorder, even canine Alzheimer’s, pharmaceuticals are increasingly being called in to intervene.

Fido’s mental health has become a bit of a booming industry, opening up the relatively new field of veterinary behavior medicine, generating a cadre of doggie therapists ready to help you help clean up your dog’s many diagnosable ‘isms and treatment includes a lot more than liver treats and a clicker.  According to a recent New York Times article: “Americans spent $49 billion for pet products and services last year, up $11.5 billion from 2003, with a third of the total spending, and the fastest-growing category, spent on health care. Treatments formerly reserved for people — psychiatric drugs, root canals, chemotherapy and liposuction—are now regularly administered to our pets.” Yes, you read that correctly, liposuction.  The average dog (and cat too!) is as obese as the average American and veterinarians are searching for the canine equivalent of the magic bullet to help Fido shed those extra pounds.  Crazy.

Despite what seems utterly over-the-top, I came very close to signing up for hers and hers doses of Prozac recently after Weez (my 9 year-old blue dog) began having rather serious bouts of noise phobia that left me an anxiety-ridden mess.  She broke through a window at home (to go where? I have no idea) in an effort to quell her fear of a train slamming in the distance and bolted one day when we got out of the car when she heard gunshots- shots, I might add, that were miles (as in 10s of) away.  Her phobia has increased to the point that if there is even the slightest hint of a boom-- a trash can lid slamming, a hammer on a roof—Weez is catapulted into tail tucked, duck and cover, every-dog-for-herself mode instantly.

Aside from the obvious dangers of this freakish behavior, regularly living in a state of utter panic can’t be good for a short-lived animal.  So, I began investigating, reading the relevant literature, trying to figure out how to help her overcome it.  The information was plenty and though the suggestions for solutions abound, everything from desensitization programs to benign neglect, none of these worked.  So, like a desperate American I went in search of the perfect chemical cocktail to ease her pain. 

There must be something I could wrap in a piece of cheese every morning and then head out with Weez to fire off my pistol, watching as she gleefully stands by, eyes glazed, happily content with it all.  But, somehow, I have never brought myself to actually follow through with this quest.

Instead, something short of an epiphany happened for Weez and I.  A friend with, apparently, Caesar Milan-esque canine wisdom came to visit. For whatever reason (I try not to question genius), he enjoys cheering for dogs and would periodically bust into: “Weez! Weez! Weez!” throughout the day.  Being a dog, she was, naturally, thrilled with the enthusiastic reception, dancing around the kitchen in response, grabbing her ball.  This went on in regular intervals, providing Weez with the fantastic opportunity to be celebrated, or something.  Whatever it was, something clicked in her brain.

Fast forward a few days.  We are out on a hike when I hear it.  A snow mobile boomed in the distance and I immediately turn to grab Weez.  Just as she tucks her tail and starts to speed off, I chant: “Weez! Weez! Weez!” Totally ridiculous, I know, but she stopped.  She even wagged a little.  She turned toward me and we started playing with a stick.  She was nervous, granted, but her nerves were tempered somehow. It worked.  Weez didn’t need a pill afterall, just a morale booster, a small reminder that she is OK in the world. 
So, I have become her number one fan, cheering her on several times a day, helping her feel better about the big, bad, nasty, scary world. 

It’s a bit embarrassing at times, like standing in a packed parking lot the other day trying to convince Weez she wasn’t going to die if she left the car (the train was banging nearby); people are passing by slowly, curiously staring at me with my tailgate open, loudly chanting: “Weez! Weez! Weez!”

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