A Bit About Us...

By all rights I should have begun this blog back in March when Sam first came home. Instead, you'll be picking up three months later, when Sam is a 50 lb menace instead of a 16 lb cuddlebug. Don't worry, I'll be sure to fill you in as we go along.

Sam at 8 weeks

I suppose I should get all the background out of the way now, in the beginning. I am a 22-year-old college graduate who moved back in with her parents this past February. Prior to that, I was attending graduate school for publishing in Boston, Massachusetts. My life was on track. I had everything lined up. And then, well, my intensity and ambition finally caught up with me.

In late January I was diagnosed with Panic Disorder with Agoraphobia. I won't go into the details, but if you're interested, you can learn more about it here . Essentially, it's a mental disorder where victims suffer acute and seemingly arbitrary panic attacks, which feel like either your heart is going to give out at any moment or you're going to pass out or throw up or all three while simultaneously feeling the intense, irrational, all-encompassing urge to flee. Because of these attacks, sufferers can develop agoraphobia, where they are afraid to leave home or travel anywhere "unsafe" where they could potentially be beset by an attack and left helpless, trapped, ill, and embarrassed. This is, in a very tiny nutshell, what happened to me.

Living alone in Boston was no longer an option. I needed to be back home in Florida with my family, where I could learn to manage this disorder in a supportive environment conducive to recovery. The last minute move wasn't easy. I felt as though I had my will stripped from me. I'd forfeited my right to have a say in most decisions the moment I was no longer able to control my panic-driven behavior. Both of my parents flew up to help me, and without them there I would never have made it through without a complete nervous collapse.

Eventually, after a massive blizzard, a 3-day flight delay, 6 Xanax and a Valium, I arrived back home, defeated. I'd lost all confidence. I've always been the honor student, the girl with her eyes on the prize, the one who knows where she's headed in life. And yet here I was, a grad-school dropout, moving back in with my parents at 22, my confidence completely broken. I couldn't even go to the doctor's office without losing it, both my mother and the doctor concerned as I paced back and forth in the waiting room, clenching and unclenching my fists, nearly hyperventilating, unable to calm down, wanting simply to be out. I embarked on a comprehensive recovery plan of medication, therapy, and concentrated relaxation. But it was still nearly impossible for me to leave the house.

Enter Sam.

The idea of getting a dog had been in my head ever since we lost the golden Labrador I grew up with, Thor, in May of 2009. Thor died a few months shy of his 14th birthday, and he left a Lab-shaped void in the hearts of my family. It didn't seem right to be living at home again without a dog, too. And a dog could help with my recovery. It's proven that pet owners have less stress and are generally healthier than non-pet owners (due to daily walks, puppy kisses, that sort of thing), and that just petting a dog can lower your blood pressure. So I began to look for a dog.

Our Lab, Thor, in his Santa Paws hat

At first I checked local shelters, because I felt rescuing a dog who would in turn rescue me was fitting. I knew I wanted a big dog, I wanted a male, and I wanted him to be one or two years old. I didn't want a puppy, because puppies were a lot of work, and I wasn't keen on going through the housetraining process again. I saw a few dogs, made appointments to interact with them for an hour or two and talk to their handlers, but none of them clicked with me. I played with a beautiful Shepherd-hound mix named Beau, pursued a Dane/Lab mix named Gibson, even submitted a profile to adoptalab.org. But I supposed none of these was meant to be, as I had no connection with Beau, Gibson got adopted out before I could meet him properly, and the lab rescue never found me a match.

At this point it was mid-February, and my mother told me a friend of hers from work had a litter of chocolate lab puppies she was selling. Thrilled, I called the seller, set a date to come visit, and eagerly awaited finding my new companion. Unfortunately, this was at the same time I was beginning my SSRI, and I had awful side effects for the first two weeks. As the date to go meet my puppy drew nearer, I finally had to admit: I wasn't ready for a dog. If I continued to feel like this, there was no way I could care for a puppy. I could barely care for myself. I called the seller to cancel, only to find that she had sold the last pup to another buyer, confusing this newcomer for me. Again, it was not meant to be.

Another of my mother's friends had bought one of the puppies, and she continually e-mailed us with pictures of her new pup Holly. Mom would call me over, but I didn't even want to look. If I couldn't have a dog, I didn't want to look at people who did. And I certainly didn't want to see adorable puppy faces when mine had slipped through my fingers.

The idea of a chocolate Lab stuck with me. Shelter mixes weren't working out for me, and ultimately, I knew that it was fate that I should have another Lab. I grew up with two Lab brothers, Bud (black) and Thor (golden), so it made perfect sense that this new Lab to come into my life should be chocolate. I didn't want to replace my boys, after all. I just wanted to move on.

So I took to browsing the web for chocolate Labs available in my area. And suddenly, out of nowhere, a post for blockheaded chocolate Labs, AKC-certified four generations back, being sold only two miles away from my home. Thrilled, I called the seller, discovered there were three male puppies left, and made an appointment to visit in an hour to take a look.

I took Mom with me. As we went into the backyard, where the Lab parents rested in their roomy kennels and the other six spoken-for pups whined from a different enclosure, I had eyes only for the three little blockheads peering up at me from their wooden playpen. Suddenly, this was real. I knew one of these was going to be my dog. They were perfect.

We let all three loose so we could watch them play. One was smaller and very shy; he was immediately out of the running for me. I wanted a big, lovable goofball of a dog, the way Bud had been, and a sweetheart, the way Thor had been. The other two pups were closer in size, but the larger one tended to dominate in play-fights and always came running to whoever called for him. As the other two pups ignored me and the fattest one came bounding up to me every time I knelt down, I knew this porker was mine. I scooped him up and looked him in the face. "Are you going to be my Sam?" I asked. He wiggled and mouthed my fingers.

Sam his first day home

That was that. Sam got a yellow string tied around his neck to mark him from the others, and I returned three days later to pick him up. I brought him home March 8, when he was 8 weeks old. He howled and whined and bleated and meowed and made all sorts of god-awful noises on the car ride home, then refused to get out of the car once we'd arrived. Oh, this stubborn boy was mine all right.

Sam was 16 pounds when I brought him home. Today he is 5 and a half months old and over 50 pounds of knucklehead. He has been integral in helping me manage my disorder. He loves car rides now, and accompanies me to parks and beaches as well as quick errands to Blockbuster or the dry cleaners'. I never feel nervous when I'm with Sam. Unless, of course, he's eating metal or chewing on beer bottles or doing any of the other myriad things he does without a thought to his own safety. But I love him to death, and he's bonded quite strongly with me, and we're a team.

Here and there I'll fill you in on the three un-chronicled months of Sam's puppyhood, but from here on out, you'll find the joys and challenges I face each day with this wonderful hellion of a pup. I hope that if you have a dog you can relate to at least some of what I write here (especially if you have or have ever had a Lab), and that if you don't have one, you can live the life vicariously. I hope the little things Sam does throughout the day that make me burst into laughter will bring a smile to you, as well.

Feel free to comment on any post you like. Us dog-owners are a close-knit group, and I'd love to hear your dog stories, as well. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy reading mine.

What can I chew next...?