If You’re Struggling, I’m Struggling Too

(A Dog’s Memoir of Mental Mayhem)

I am a very good boy. I know this because Aiden told me so three minutes ago, right before he put his hands over his face and let out a sound like a tire deflating.

Aiden is my human. He is twenty-nine years old, wears soft gray trousers that taste mildly of laundry lavender, and works inside a glowing silver rectangle. I love Aiden with a ferocity that rattles my ribs. If an intruder ever crossed our threshold, I would bark until my throat turned to gravel, or perhaps present them with my favorite yellow squeaky duck, depending on the intruder’s general aura.

The trouble is not my devotion. The trouble is that Aiden is deeply, hopelessly, clinically incomprehensible.

I do not think he does it to be cruel. I think Aiden’s brain is simply broken in a way that prevents him from understanding basic reality. Every day, he creates arbitrary, terrifying, and wildly shifting laws, and then he looks at me with eyes full of profound, sorrowful betrayal when I fail to predict them.

Take, for instance, the Great Sock Mystery.

Aiden has feet. Attached to those feet are soft, delicious foot-wraps that absorb his sacred essence—a rich bouquet of espresso, sweat, and cheap cedar cologne. When Aiden removes these foot-wraps and hurls them into a plastic basket on the floor, any sensible creature knows what must be done. The foot-wraps contain his soul-flavor. They are vulnerable. They must be collected, brought to the rug under the dining table, and given a gentle, thorough moistening with my tongue for safekeeping.

Yesterday afternoon, I performed this sacred duty. I retrieved a gray ankle-sock from the basket, held it delicately in my incisors like a prized game bird, and trotted into the living room to display my loyalty.

Aiden looked up from his silver rectangle. His eyes widened.

“Roscoe,” he whispered. His voice had that tight, high-pitched stretch it gets right before he loses his mind. “No. Leave it.”

I froze. Leave it?

We had discussed this word before. In the past, Leave it meant: Look at me, then look at the floor, then sit down, then do a tiny dance, and maybe I will give you a piece of dried liver. But sometimes Leave it meant: Drop the thing. And other times it meant: If you freeze completely motionless for three seconds, I will scream ‘GOOD LEAVE IT’ and shove a cheese cube into your mouth.

I decided to try Option D: A slow, regal head-tilt while maintaining eye contact, followed by a soft, questioning tail-wag.

“Roscoe. Drop it. Drop. It.” Aiden stood up. His posture was aggressive. He took a step toward me.

AH, I thought, my heart accelerating to the speed of an engine. THE SACRED TAG GAME HAS BEGUN!

I ducked my front legs, slammed my chest to the hardwood floor, kept my rear end hoisted high in the air, and let out a high-pitched, joyous squeak through the sides of my mouth, gripping the sock tightly. Aiden lunged. I spun three hundred and sixty degrees, executed a brilliant drift across the rug, and sprinted into the hallway.

“ROSCOE, FOR GOD’S SAKE!” Aiden yelled, chasing me.

I was thrilled! We were running! We were a pack! I darted under the dining room table, spun around, and popped my head out from under the chairs. Aiden dropped to his knees. He was breathing heavily. His face was red.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he moaned, resting his forehead against the edge of a chair. “I bought you a seventy-dollar snuffle mat. I give you organic salmon oil. Why do you hate me?”

I stopped wagging. I sat down. The sock fell from my mouth onto my paws.

I was utterly, profoundly terrified.

I did not hate him. I adored him. But the rules had shifted again. Why had he chased me if he did not want to play? Why was he making the crying-sigh sound? Was the sock cursed? Did the sock contain an evil spirit? I leaned forward and nervously licked Aiden’s knee, but he just pulled away, grabbed his rectangular pocket-glass, and tapped on it furiously.

I knew what he was doing. He was typing into the magic pocket-glass. He was asking the internet why his dog was evil.

I wished I had a pocket-glass. I would have typed: Why does my human run after me if he wants me to stop running? Why does he smell like stress? Is the floor evil? Please help, I am doing my best.

***

By four o’clock, it was time for The String.

The String—which Aiden calls "the leash"—is a thick woven strap that binds us together so we may go outside and inspect the local newspapers. The neighborhood is full of vital information written on fire hydrants and lampposts in the ancient language of urine, and it is my sacred obligation to read every word.

Aiden snapped the String onto my collar. “Okay, Roscoe,” he said, taking a deep breath like a man preparing to enter a burning building. “Nice walk today. No pulling. We’re working on loose-leash walking. Loose. Leash.”

He said these words with great emphasis, as if the phrase loose-leash possessed innate magical properties. To me, it sounded like a sequence of wet noises.

We stepped outside. The sun was warm. The air smelled of woodsmoke, cut grass, and the faint, electrifying perfume of a squirrel that had crossed the driveway three hours ago. My brain ignited with pure, unadulterated joy.

I trotted forward. The String went taut.

Instantly, Aiden stopped walking. He turned his back on me and stood like a statue.

I paused. I turned around and looked at him. Why have we ceased moving? Is Aiden broken? Has he rooted into the concrete like a tree?

I trotted back toward him to investigate. The moment the String went slack, Aiden whipped around, beamed at me, and shoved a tiny brown pellet into my face.

“YES! Good heel!” he sang.

I swallowed the pellet. It tasted like cardboard and synthetic chicken. Aha! I thought. The game is simple! I must walk away until the String is tight, then walk back to get the chicken dust!

I happily trotted forward again. The String went tight. Aiden stopped. He turned into a statue.

I ran back to him. “Gimme chicken!” I said with my tail.

Aiden’s smile vanished. He didn't give me the pellet this time. Instead, he let out a long, ragged sigh. “No, Roscoe. You’re just yo-yoing. You’re not learning.”

Yo-yoing? What was a yo-yoing? Was it the squirrel? I looked around frantically. WHERE IS THE YO-YOING? SHOULD I BARK AT IT?

“Sit,” Aiden commanded, his voice trembling slightly.

I sat.

“No, not sit. Walk. Let’s go.” He took a step.

I stood up to walk.

“No! Heel!”

I sat down again, furiously.

“Don’t sit! Walk!”

My brain short-circuited. My back legs attempted to sit while my front legs attempted to walk forward, resulting in a awkward, low-riding scuttle that made me look like an oversized crab trying to escape a pot. I looked up at Aiden, panting heavily, my tail doing small, panicked thumps against the pavement.

What motion do you require from my meat-suit, O Great Tall One? Should I spin? Should I lie down? Should I offer you a paw? I will give you both paws! I will roll over! JUST TELL ME WHICH ONE KEEPS YOU FROM MAKING THAT SAD FACE!

“Forget it,” Aiden muttered, his shoulders slumping. He pulled out his pocket-glass with his free hand and held it up to his mouth. “Hey Google,” he said in a voice heavy with tragedy. “Search best dog trainers near me. My golden-doodle is displaying extreme stubbornness and dominance issues.”

Dominance? I didn't want to dominate anything! I wanted to smell the hydrant where the golden retriever from down the street had detailed his recent digestive troubles! But Aiden was miserable, and because Aiden was miserable, I was vibrating with frantic, unchanneled anxiety. I leaned against his shins, attempting to offer comfort, but my weight tipped him slightly off balance, causing him to drop his iced coffee onto the sidewalk.

The plastic cup exploded. Brown liquid and ice splashed across his white sneakers.

Aiden froze. I froze.

He stared down at his ruined shoes. A single, quiet sound escaped his throat—something between a wheeze and a squeak.

I knew this look. It was the Cataclysm. I bowed my head, tucked my tail beneath my belly, and flattened my ears until they pressed against my skull. I was a terrible dog. I was a failure. I did not know how I had destroyed his cold brown water, but I had clearly brought ruin upon our house.

***

Two days later, Aiden dragged me into the lair of the Master Mind-Reader.

It was a large, echoey room with rubber flooring that smelled faintly of pine cleaner and the terror of thirty different breeds of canine. The sign on the door said Pawsitive Horizons Canine Academy.

There were four other dogs in the room, all attached to Strings, all looking equally terrified and utterly confused.

To my left was a French Bulldog named Pierre who was panting so loudly he sounded like a small lawnmower trying to start up in a tub of lard. To my right was a young German Shepherd named Kaiser whose eyes were bulging out of his head as he stared at a plastic cone in the corner.

“He’s just so headstrong,” Aiden was telling the head human—a tall woman named Brenda who wore a vest covered in tiny pockets and smelled intensely of boiled liver. “He ignores commands. He hoards socks. He pulls on the leash like he’s pulling a sled in Alaska. I feel like he’s constantly testing my boundaries.”

Brenda looked at Aiden. Then she looked down at me.

I was currently pressed as flat as a pancake against the rubber floor, trying desperately to make myself smaller than Pierre the Frenchie, sweating through my paw pads.

“Aiden,” Brenda said calmly, kneeling down on the floor a few feet away from me. She didn't reach out to touch me. She just sat there, quiet, relaxed, breathing slowly. “Look at his eyes. Look at his ears.”

Aiden blinked. “Yeah? He’s being evasive.”

“He’s terrified,” Brenda said gently. “He’s not headstrong, Aiden. He’s totally overwhelmed. He has no idea what you want from him, so he’s trying everything he can think of, getting frantic when it fails, and then shutting down when you get frustrated.”

I looked at Brenda. My left ear twitched. How does the Liver-Woman speak the Truth? Has she bathed in the sacred waters of comprehension?

“He’s not trying to dominate you,” Brenda continued, looking up at Aiden. “He loves you. But your communication is absolute chaos. You tell him 'sit' when you mean 'stay,' you yell when he plays tag with your socks—which teaches him that socks get him your undivided attention—and you pull on the leash, which activates his opposition reflex. If you’re struggling with him, Aiden, it’s because he’s struggling with you.”

Aiden stood there, holding my String, his mouth slightly open. He looked at me. Really looked at me.

For the past three months, whenever Aiden looked at me, I had felt a heavy, cold weight in the air—the weight of his expectations, his stress, his endless googling about 'alpha energy' and 'canine stubbornness.'

But now, the air shifted.

Aiden dropped to his knees on the rubber mat. He didn't use his sharp, stressed voice. He didn't use the high-pitched baby voice that meant he was about to force a pill down my throat. He just breathed out, a long, quiet exhale that blew his bangs off his forehead.

“Oh,” Aiden whispered. “Oh, buddy. You’re not being a jerk. You’re just totally confused, aren't you?”

YES! my heart screamed. YES, O TALL ONE! I DO NOT KNOW WHAT LEAVE IT MEANS! I DO NOT KNOW WHY THE COLD BROWN WATER IS SACRED! I AM JUST A COLLECTION OF FUR AND LEGS TRYING TO NAVIGATE A WORLD OF GLOWING RECTANGLES AND PLASTIC STRINGS!

I let out a tiny, whimpering bark and shuffled forward on my belly, burying my snout directly into the crook of Aiden’s elbow.

Aiden wrapped his arms around my neck. He didn't pull away. He smelled like sweat and old coffee, but beneath that, the bitter scent of his anxiety was beginning to fade, replaced by something warmer, softer, and far more familiar.

“Okay,” Aiden murmured into my ear. “Okay. We’re going to start over.”

***

Brenda handed Aiden a small, clicky plastic square and a pouch full of actual, high-grade freeze-dried beef liver. Not the cardboard chicken pellets. The good stuff.

“Rule number one,” Brenda said. “One word, one meaning. And no emotion. Just information.”

She placed a small piece of blue tape on the rubber floor.

“We aren't going to teach 'Heel' today. We aren't going to teach 'Leave it.' Today, you are just going to teach him that when he looks at your face, good things happen. Nothing else.”

Aiden sat up straight on the floor. He held a piece of liver near his heart.

I sat across from him. My tail gave a small, cautious twitch. I stared intently at his hand. The liver is in the hand. I must stare at the hand. Should I slap the hand? Should I spin?

I lifted my paw and gently patted his knee.

In the past, Aiden would have said, “No, Roscoe, don’t paw!” or “Sit!” or “Off!”

Today, Aiden did nothing. He didn't move. He didn't scold. He just sat there, peaceful as a boulder, holding the liver.

I blinked. I lowered my paw. I looked at his hand again. Then, feeling a sudden surge of deep, existential bewilderment, I raised my eyes to look at his face, as if to ask: Why have you become a stone?

CLICK!

The plastic square in Aiden’s hand made a sharp, clean sound.

Instantly, Aiden extended his fingers and delivered the piece of beef liver directly into my mouth.

“Good,” Aiden said softly. No screaming. No frantic energy. Just the click, and the food.

My eyes widened. My brain, previously a tangled knot of panicked yarn, suddenly snapped into a clear, shining thread.

Wait.

The click means the liver is coming. And the click happened when... my eyes met his eyes.

I swallowed the liver. I immediately locked my eyes directly onto Aiden’s eyes.

CLICK!

Another piece of liver appeared in my mouth!

I gasped. I did it again. Eyes to eyes.

CLICK!

Liver!

I took a deep breath. My shoulders lowered three inches. My tail began to swing from side to side in slow, majestic arcs. The terrifying noise of the world—the lawnmower Frenchie, the echoing room, the mystery of the foot-wraps—all of it melted away.

There was no complex tapestry of invisible rules. There was no secret language I was failing to speak. There was only this: Aiden looked at me, I looked at Aiden, and together, we made the magic click sound happen.

Aiden began to laugh. It wasn't the high, strained laugh he used when I stole his socks or when he was trying to look relaxed on his glowing rectangle calls. It was a deep, quiet laugh that vibrated through his chest right where my head was resting.

“Look at him,” Aiden said to Brenda, his voice thick with something soft. “He’s so smart. He got it immediately.”

I AM SMART! I thought, my chest swelling with absolute pride. I AM THE SMARTEST CREATURE THAT HAS EVER EXISTED! I AM A GENIUS OF EYE-CONTACT!

***

It has been three weeks since the day at the rubber-floor sanctuary.

Everything is different now, though everything is mostly the same.

Aiden still wears the soft gray trousers. He still stares at the glowing rectangle for hours at a time. I still occasionally feel an overwhelming, primal urge to inspect the interior of the bathroom trash can.

But the world is no longer a dark, unpredictable forest of sudden shouts and confusing strings.

When we go for walks now, Aiden does not turn into a stone tree when the String goes tight. Instead, he simply stops, waits quietly, and when I look back at him to check in, he says a calm, happy word and gives me a piece of dried liver. I have learned that walking near his left leg keeps the liver flowing in a steady, glorious stream. It is not a battle; it is a business partnership.

And the foot-wraps? The sock mystery has finally been solved.

Yesterday, Aiden dropped a bright blue sock on the bedroom floor.

I trotted over to it. I picked it up. I held it softly in my mouth.

In the old days, this would have kicked off the Great Tag War of 2023. I braced my legs, waiting for the frantic chase, the red face, the sorrowful sighs.

Aiden walked into the room. He saw me with the sock.

He didn't yell. He didn't lunge. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, dried duck-jerky chew, and held it out to me at arm's length.

“Trade?” he said softly.

I looked at the sock. It tasted like lavender and sweat. I looked at the duck jerky. It tasted like heaven and victory.

I dropped the sock. Aiden took it, tossed it into the high basket, and handed me the jerky.

“Good boy, Roscoe,” he whispered, scratching me right behind the ears in the exact spot that makes my left hind leg do a tiny kick.

I sat down on the rug, crunching happily on the duck jerky, watching Aiden sit down at his desk. He opened his glowing rectangle, took a sip of his new iced coffee—which now lived in a heavy metal cup with a tight lid—and smiled down at me.

He still doesn't understand everything, of course. He still doesn't realize that the mailman is an evil wizard, and he still refuses to let me roll in dead earthworms. But he is trying. He is learning the language, step by step, click by click.

And as long as he keeps learning, I will be right here beside him—the best, most patient, most profoundly relieved boy in the whole wide world.