What a Hound Dog Can Teach Us About Trauma

Last night the batteries went out in one of our smoke detectors. Each time the familiar agitating BEEP rang out, Hank, our hound dog, would shake vigorously, tail between the legs, ears perked, and eyes jolting around the room—a trauma response. 

Hank had a tough start. I tried out fostering dogs while I was in social work school, and he was my first (and only). He had been picked up on the side of the road, taken to a kill shelter, and pulled into a rescue a day before he was scheduled to be euthanized. I was determined to be able to give him back to the rescue at the end of our time together so I could foster more pups. When the time came down to it, I caved. I called the rescue and asked if I could keep him, but they said he was going to a rescue in PA and was the property of that state, so no I could not adopt him. Weird huh? I took it as a sign that I should do what I set out to do and, sobbing so hard I couldn’t speak, when the time came to return him to the rescue, I did.  A few hours later the rescue called. It turns out Hank had been howling and banging his head against the kennel since they took him from my house, they wanted to know if I could come pick him up and keep him.  I drove to South Carolina at midnight and Hank has been with me ever since. 

The first several years of having him, he would curl up into the tiniest ball and attack and snarl if touched while sleeping. There were certain spots on his body that were off limits or else he issued a warning snap. And he wouldn’t go in the car. Ever. Or take baths. And sometimes he would try and attack our other dog Grizzly if he was on a walk and felt threatened. It was a hot mess. But Grizzly, our other dog, would lick the inside of Hank’s ears every time he had an outburst and would patiently sit with him. And eventually Hank would settle. 

Now, four years later, Hank sleeps like a beached whale, belly exposed, legs in the air. All you have to do is look at Hank or say “Hi Hank” and he wags his tail like crazy. He feels comfortable and safe enough to take up space. He hops begrudgingly into the car. And he is generally more comfortable around the house. Years of patience, and ear licks, and he has settled. But every now and then, something (like a fire alarm) triggers him, jolting him back into a pathway of the past. It’s a natural response to panic and jump when you hear a loud beep. That’s literally what a smoke detector is designed to do. But Hank’s body doesn’t know the difference between a fire alarm battery going off and an actual fire. 

Each time Hank heard the BEEP, his body was coursing with adrenaline and cortisol—hormones designed to mobilize and fight or run. But since he was stuck inside, all of that energy wasn’t being discharged. Because there was not an actual fire. So Hank just tremored and shook, paced and panted. We all have a Hank response in us. Hank is my poster pup for talking about trauma. 

I can’t tell you how many people I have spoken with over the past few months who are having a similar visceral stress response around the upcoming election. Headaches, tummy troubles, sweating, shaking, wanting to run, feeling trapped, catching themselves holding their breath—these all somatic and felt responses in this season. Each time a family member or friend on the opposite side of the political spectrum posts something about the election, hearing the news, the sound of kids or animals pitter patter in the house—the noise can feel deafening. It’s a fight or flight response. Many people sense their lives are at stake in this election. We are all in a collective stress response leading up to Tuesday. So many people are feeling unsafe and unsure as we stand on a moral and ethical fault lines. It can feel shaky and challenging to find solid footing. But we have to mobilize. We have to vote. And we have to make changes. The way to do this is to lean into the fear and feel the stress response. 

When Hank was trembling last night, my first inclination was to hug on him, and try and get the shakes to go away. Being a loving and empathetic person, it’s natural to want to try and make the fear go away. But the answer is actually in the fear. It’s ok to be afraid. When Hank is allowed space to tremor and shake, he can move it out of his system and feel better. The best thing to do is simply allow him to shake. It’s his energy to metabolize and digest, I cannot do it for him. Often when others are in fear, we try to take it on for them. But rather than help, we spiral ourselves out of whack too… nervous system dysregulation is contagious.

Last night, I started breathing more heavily, trying to get the fire alarm off the wall, snapping at my husband and generally running around like a chicken without a head. What might have been more helpful is if I could have just left Hank alone to process his fear, dealt with the fire alarm and moved on. When someone is sitting in fear, practice being with that feeling with them, rather than trying to make it better or fix it. Let it have a space. 

Shake it out, return to the breath, slowly look around the room and reorient to the present moment, notice where the fire is, or if it’s just a faulty battery. Don’t try to take away the fear, feel it. It’s there for a reason. It’s a well-functioning survival mechanism, that’s very understandable in this season. If you’re having a hard time feeling that fear or needing tools to do so, working with a therapist or a safe person can be very helpful. We can all take a note from Hank. Let yourself tremor. Let yourself cry. Shake it out. If you need to run or curl up in a ball, do that. Feel it completely, so it might pass and then we might stand up and take action, having shaken off the fear. Try some tremoring today using the video above, and make sure to vote on Tuesday!