Fear and Reason

What Needles Taught Me About Processing Threats

By Vanessa Herold

I took the dogs out last night for their last pee before bedtime. It was dark, and clouds blotted out even the dim light offered by light years-distant suns. Fresh spring leaves on the big tree in the yard strained the yellow beams from the security light across the concrete pad where the car was parked.

The three of us paused on the deck as I closed the door, taking in our surroundings as we always do.

I scanned the area as I always do, starting on the left where the driveway curves around the house, past the lilac bushes, across the walkway, along the garage and away toward the western edge of the property where tall grass stands like the spears of an invading army. Nothing but the desaturated non-colors of night against deep, thirsty shadows.

As I opened my mouth to urge the dogs forward, a panic-stricken alarm burst from Needles' throat as though he thought to fight off a deadly enemy with the strength of his voice. Small dog. Deep voice. I'd never heard him so frightened and angry before. And something deep inside me snapped awake. Danger. Close.

I felt my pupils dilate as I re-scanned the area. Nothing. But Needles still bellowed as though Death itself crouched over us. I was aware of Obie next to me, stiff and tense, but I couldn't take the time to reassure him. I didn't know what the threat was: timber wolves, a large man on meth, or a figment of the dog's imagination.

My right hand settled on the butt of my pistol as I backed toward the door, still looking for the threat. If we couldn't get somewhere safe first, I was ready for a less savory option. Something dark and still, tall and man-shaped caught the corner of my vision and whipped my head around to face it.

Then, as if someone had turned on the light in my mind, I understood. The dark shape was the jacket I'd hung to dry on the post at the edge of the deck earlier that evening. Needles had recognized the shadow as something unfamiliar and vaguely man-like. And not understanding, he was frightened.

I spoke quietly to him, then stepped forward to touch the garment. “See? It's just a jacket. It won't eat you.” His roar of terror subsided into a few quiet, sheepish barks. And then the only sound was the noise of his sniffing.

You can always trust the dog to warn you that something in the environment worries him. But the human in the relationship must interpret those environmental cues and act on them wisely. That's what separates us from them.

In a defense context, fear is the dog. Fear warns that something in the environment is dangerous. If fear is allowed to be in charge, chances of a good outcome dwindle. If Needles had his way about things, I would have shredded the jacket.

Analysis of the threat acts in the defense equation the way the human acts in interactions between her dog and his environment. It refines human response to a percieved threat, allowing us to respond with appropriate force to that threat.

I think we need both fear and analysis. Without fear, there is no urgency. In fact, many threats might go unrecognized without fear. And without analysis, we run the risk of overreacting to a minor threat or underreacting to a deadly threat.

Except where otherwise noted, all articles and images on this web site © 2006-2008 by Kathy Jackson. For permission to quote, please contact author.

This article copyright 2007 by Vanessa Herold.

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