The OCD Was Wrong - An Ode to Spencer

In 2010, I adopted my first dog. I asked (begged) my mom, with whom I was living, for a dog. My grandfather had just died a prolonged and traumatic death, I had dropped out of college, and I was quietly - secretly - wading deeper into the waters of active addiction. I had no direction. I needed something, anything to keep me going.

My mom agreed, and a few days later we were actively scouring Petfinder.com for potential matches. We found a shih tzu named Spencer. Dumb name for a dog, I thought. He was the only dog I applied for. Less than a week later I drove out to Providence, Rhode Island with my boyfriend at the time to meet him. 

There he was, sitting behind a pet gate in the foster’s  small apartment. I remember being slightly disappointed, a fact I recall now with a pang of guilt. That’s him? I thought. He was a little underfed and had an atrocious haircut that he looked like he gave to himself. He had an underbite and his tongue poked out, and though he was slightly wall-eyed, he looked at me with such affection. He was gentle, he was sweet, and he showed some interest in me as I approached him. That was all I needed. I paid the $425 fee, my own money. I put him on my lap in the passenger seat. 

When we stopped to use the restroom on the way home, he stood on his hind legs and looked out the car window. As I walked out of the gas station, I saw the fuzzy little top of his head and his big brown eyes peeking over the rim of the window. He was looking for me. 

Yes, that’s him.

Spencer’s Petfinder picture

From then on, it was Katie and Spencer. We were a package deal. If I was invited anywhere, I only had one question: “can I bring my dog?” 

It wasn’t long before the obsessions started.

See, when you have OCD, you have something called a Feared Possible Self. I have always been afraid of being a clueless person, someone who maybe isn’t privy to a vital piece of information, or makes a stupid mistake. As such, I am particularly vulnerable to obsessions anywhere that there is the possibility of my cluelessness causing harm to myself, or someone else. It is no surprise then that becoming wholly responsible for a very small and very precious life was the beginning of a whole new host of obsessions for me, all centering around the safety and wellness of my dog, or perhaps more accurately, how my potential cluelessness could harm him.

I couldn’t tell you if they came on all at once or creeped in quietly. What if the food I’m feeding him causes him long-term health issues? What if he gets hit by a car while we’re walking because I’m not careful enough? It’s possible that I might love him too much, and the universe will self-correct and punish me by taking him away. 

The obsessions became so loud, in many realms of my life, that I began to regularly self-medicate with prescription painkillers. I became agoraphobic. I barely functioned, except to do things for my dog. I could leave the house if he was there, and we’d go on little walks and hikes. My painkiller addiction rapidly progressed to a heroin addiction, as it typically does. 

Spencer would come with me to Hartford to buy drugs. Yes, he was there for that too. And when the OCD would chime in that maybe we’d get into a car accident because I wasn’t paying enough attention, and Spencer would die, I’d numb myself. When I dreamed of drowning, probably because I had taken far too much heroin and stopped breathing, I’d choke myself awake, gasping for breath. Spencer would be laying next to me. He was always there. 

In March 2012, I entered detox and then an inpatient facility. I was diagnosed with polysubstance abuse, eating disorder not otherwise specified (perhaps an article for another day), but they missed the OCD. At the facility, everyone knew about Spencer. When they asked what kept us going, it was him. I called my family daily for status reports. How was he? Was he happy? Does he miss me like I miss him? Yes, yes, and yes. I was discharged a few days early for good progress, and when my mom picked me up, she brought Spencer with her. I knocked on the windows of the group therapy room and held him up for all of my compatriots to see. “Look, this is him!” 

Spencer and I, summer 2020. I loved being in lockdown with him. What a privilege.

I stayed clean. I lost almost all of my friends, who were seemingly, and perhaps rightly fatigued with my constant problems, and backing out of plans. The OCD came back with a bitter vengeance, the eating disorder too. Now with no chemical buffer to save me, I was plagued. Spencer watched me wither away, he watched me pace and suffer. Unlike the humans in my life, there was no judgment. He never asked, “are you on drugs again?” or “you look sick,” or “what is wrong with you?” He just said, “hey, can we go for a walk? Let’s get outside for a little while.”

And I said, “okay, little buddy. Let’s go.”

I carried on with my life the best I could. I enrolled in school, I befriended the man who would become my husband. We dated, we moved in together. Spencer came with, always in tow. The obsessions continued. Our daily routine was a compromise between Spencer’s needs and my obsessions. When I picked him up off of the bed in the morning, the doubt would occur to me that maybe he swallowed a bunch of sewing needles. If he did, it might hurt him when I picked him up. So, I’d lift him in a ritualized way so as to not put pressure on his stomach. When I got to the top of the stairs, I’d imagine myself falling each step with Spencer in my arms, and losing my grip of him, or landing on him, killing him because I wasn’t paying perfect attention to where I was stepping. I’d clutch him to my chest as if he was precious cargo, and very carefully work my way down the stairs, leaning against the wall for support. I loved him. I couldn’t let anything happen to him. 

On and on this went, day in and day out. Anywhere that there was a potential for Spencer to be hurt, I’d imagine it. I’d dismiss all available evidence that said he was safe. I’d ruminate on his death and try to imagine it perfectly so I could prepare myself, all of these potential deaths. I would hold my head and whisper, “stop, stop, stop!” to try and get the gorey images of his death, dismemberment, maiming and suffering out of my head. I tried to cancel out the bad images with good ones. Nothing worked.

The doctor is in. Spencer was a certified therapy dog and worked with me in multiple therapeutic settings.

It’s a curse to love someone mortal.

That’s what I told myself. This was my burden, this was the cost of loving a dog so dearly. So be it. It would be another 5 or 6 years before I would be diagnosed with OCD. By the time I was diagnosed, or rather, diagnosed myself, I had been through detox, inpatient treatment, outpatient treatment, years of Alcoholics Anonymous (Narcotics Anonymous wasn’t in my town, so I settled), a year of EMDR, an intensive week-long trauma retreat, four years of education, two years of clinical work. All had missed it.

When I was diagnosed, Spencer was 12. He was slowing down. I learned all about OCD, and in session one day - before I was introduced to I-CBT, I was spinning some long rumination about Spencer’s death to my wonderful OCD therapist. She interrupted me and said, “where is Spencer right now?” Primitive reality sensing, before either of us knew about I-CBT. I looked at him, he was snoozing peacefully beside me, as he always was. “Oh yeah. He’s fine,” I said, and I dismissed the obsession as irrelevant. 

Recovery came. I did my exposures and practiced response prevention, I learned to stop ruminating. I leaned into my values. I got my life back. I started my own practice. I found I-CBT, which elevated my recovery, and I made beautiful new friends. Even though my practice was virtual, everyone knew Spencer! I even started to use him in training slides to teach trainees concepts about I-CBT. The OCD finally quieted, and I found literal peace of mind. I was subclinical for the first time in 25 years.

Here’s the funny thing. Out of the thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of obsessions I experienced about Spencer’s safety - all of them were wrong. Every single prediction of his death, every gorey, unlikely and ridiculous hypothetical death the OCD predicted was wrong, 100% of them.

How do I know?

Last week, at about 16 years old after nearly 14 beautiful years of friendship, I kissed his head as the veterinarian euthanized him. 

His health had been on the decline for the last two years. His slow descent into old age coincided with my finally getting well. It’s as if he said, “finally, my vigil is over! Now I can enjoy retirement.”

His vision started to fade, then his hearing went. At night he would start to pace and bark, and he would get confused about where he was - typical of cognitive decline at his age. I knew when he died I wouldn’t be able to get another dog. So I preemptively adopted a puppy we named Lizzie, after Lizzie Borden. Then came Junebug the miniature dachshund a year later. Why, Spencer was so wonderful that I needed two dogs just to fill the void! He tolerated both with patience, and taught them the ropes. “Now,” I imagined him lecturing, “Katie’s very sweet, she will love you immensely. Take care of her. And if she tries to break a treat in half and pass it off as two treats, don’t let her get away with that. You just stare at her until she gives you the whole damn thing.”

Next came his incontinence. I didn’t care. I scrubbed the carpets and mopped up his pee. I bought washable rugs. When he was restless, I gave him hemp oil. A concerning stiffness had started creeping into his back legs. I bought him an orthopedic bed, and a heating pad. I massaged his back and his legs. He started eschewing walks for sleep. I gave him the opportunity to just be an old dog, and sleep in comfort as much as he wanted. I’ve always believed in the right to allow my pets to age, and not to euthanize them for being inconvenient. I made my work schedule around his needs, building in time to let him outside, feed him, bathe him, groom him and take him to the vet. I was immensely privileged in that way. 

On Monday, I noticed he was having trouble getting up. On Tuesday, we saw the vet. I put on his harness - it was so big on him, it practically slipped off. Not good. We made a plan to start arthritis medication the following week. Wednesday was a good day, he got up and chewed on a marrow bone. I made him raw food which he ate with such gusto that I had hope he would improve and we might get a few more months with him yet. Thursday, he slept.

Spencer's last meal - raw chicken, rabbit, fresh vegetables and a fresh egg

On Friday morning, I came downstairs to find that Spencer was no longer able to get up. I picked him up out of his bed, and he curled his back legs close to his body in an unusual way. I put him down outside to use the bathroom, he teetered unsteadily on his toes and then collapsed. I called the vet, they got me in for that afternoon. Maybe today was just a bad day?

Over the next few hours while I paced, waiting for the vet appointment, he decompensated rapidly. God, what happened? What was it? Was it the food? Was it the antibiotics? What could I do? He could no longer muster enough strength to roll onto his belly, or even into a sitting position. All he could do was lay on his side and pant. I held him up and hand fed him, and held him upright to enjoy a dental treat. I brought him water and supported him while he drank.  

Privately, and though he couldn’t hear me anymore, I had told him, “Spencer, when it’s time to go, you just tell me, and I won’t hesitate. I won’t make you suffer.” This was him telling me. “Mom, I love you. I had such a wonderful time. But my body can’t handle this anymore."

I said, “okay, little buddy. Let's go.” 

I told my husband, I think today is his last day.

It was.

We piled into the truck with him panting and squirming on my lap. I think he was in pain. We got to the vet, and the vet gently told us that medication wouldn’t help, that it would extend his life but it wouldn’t be a quality life. He recommended euthanasia. I called my mom, who graciously showed up to support me. And I held him as he was sedated, and kissed his head as he passed. He couldn’t hear me, but I told him how much he meant to me. I wept.

We buried him in the yard. My husband selflessly dug the hole in 80 degree heat. We laid him to rest. Afterwards, I watered his memorial garden with my tears. I sobbed in the middle of my yard for all to see, for all to bear witness to the immense love I had for this dog, written in my heaving sobs. I did not care. Watch. Witness. It’s the smallest testament I could offer to the immense love for this funny little dog who didn’t speak my language, but bore my illness with such grace.

And all along, the OCD was never right.

I celebrated that the OCD was wrong. It was so wrong. His death wasn’t violent, or gorey. And while it happened by my hand, it wasn’t out of cluelessness or negligence, but love. It was quiet, beautiful, and compassionate. It was a gentle end to a wonderful life that we shared. A period at the end of a happy story. 

It was nothing like the OCD said. But that’s the nature of OCD - it’s wrong. It’s false. I didn’t let anything bad happen to my dog. Ever. And that’s not because OCD protected him. It’s because I’m not the clueless person I was afraid of being and I never was. Quite the contrary, when I saw him suffering I knew exactly what to do.

Friday was the only bad day Spencer and I had together. And if I had to endure another 12 years of obsessions, of horrible thoughts, and weird rituals to keep him safe, I’d do it again. I’d tolerate his persistent grudge for the skunk in the backyard. I’d pull grass out of his butt. I’d scrub his pee, I’d make his food, and apply his ointments, and…well, I’d do it all. I like to think he would, too.

And to my sweet, darling Spencer - thank you for bearing the weight of my illness with such grace, humor, and steadfast love. Thank you for walking beside me to the place I am today, where I am recovered, cherished, stable, supported, and happy. I love you more than I ever imagined possible. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

And to you, the reader - if you are thinking of a new, four-legged addition to your home, please consider rescuing, and do not let my loss dissuade you. There are many, many wonderful dogs and cats waiting in shelters and foster homes who would love to be your Spencer.

Rest in Peace, Spencer. 2008-May 24th, 2024

To live in this world

you must be able

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it

against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it

go,

to let it go.

Excerpt from Mary Oliver

In Blackwater Woods