My Dog Has Social Anxiety and I’m Starting to Think He’s the Healthy One (Part Two)
Luka’s dog psychiatrist appointment didn’t start well. It was my fault.
After confirming the appointment, the veterinarian sent me a very long, very detailed, multi-page document explaining how to psychologically protect your dog from the psychological trauma of his own psychiatric appointment. I’m sure it was excellent. I skimmed it the way one skims a terms-and-conditions agreement before clicking “I Agree” and surrendering your firstborn.
Here’s how I interpreted it: if your dog experiences such severe anxiety that being outside his home environment is too much, you can schedule a fifteen-minute intake appointment at the veterinarian’s office, followed by a ninety-minute virtual appointment the next day.
Luka is traumatized away from home. He is also not a delightful automobile passenger. His preferred seat in the car is the driver’s seat whether I’m in it or not. Since he does not have a license (and frankly lacks the emotional maturity for highway merging), I felt it would be irresponsible to indulge this preference.
So naturally, I chose the intake/virtual option.
It seemed sensible. Thoughtful. Progressive. Frankly, ahead of its time.
At the intake, I would act as Luka’s ambassador—his spokesperson, his publicist, his emotional translator. Why drag him into a stressful environment when I could describe him using phrases like, “He has big feelings” and “He doesn’t trust authority”?
Then the next day, we’d Zoom. Luka would be at home, emotionally available but physically unbothered. Everyone wins.
Except… not everyone wins.
On the day of the first appointment, I hugged Luka goodbye and drove out to the countryside. When I say “countryside,” I mean my GPS eventually stopped giving directions and simply asked, “Are you sure about this?”
I arrived at what appeared to be a house. A tall, bearded man—clearly the veterinarian—walked out and motioned for me to park. I rolled down the window and offered a cheerful, “Hi!” He pointed to a grassy area and said, “Just take Luka over there to go to the bathroom, and when he’s finished, you can come inside.”
I froze.
“He’s not with me,” I said, trying to sound like a person who still deserved to own a dog.
The look on his face suggested he had never encountered this level of interpretation of written instructions.
“What do you mean he’s not with you?”
“I thought this visit was so we could do the real appointment virtually tomorrow,” I explained.
“Under Texas law, I have to see him in person to treat him,” he said. “It’s the law.”
Now, in my defense, if a dog is so anxious that he requires a virtual appointment, it seems counterintuitive to first drive him an hour into the wilderness and parade him into the very environment that triggers his anxiety. But what do I know? I’m not trained in human psychology much less canine conditions and how to treat them. For all I know, this made perfect sense and since I was the one who hadn’t brought a dog to a dog appointment, I wasn’t in the best position to question much.
“Given that there is no dog here,” he said, with remarkable restraint, “the only option is to convert tomorrow’s virtual appointment into an in-person appointment.”
“I’m not sure how that will work,” I said, gently suggesting that perhaps he come up with a different plan. “He doesn’t do well in cars, and he’s very nervous at veterinary appointments.”
“Perhaps you can try pharmaceuticals,” he suggested, “Do you have any Trazodone?”
Ah yes. The classic approach: if you can’t solve the anxiety, simply remove the dog’s ability to experience it.
“Yes,” I said. “We use it for fireworks, but I don’t think it works very well.”
“Well,” he replied, “it’s worth a try.”
At that point, I could practically hear his internal monologue: This woman owns a dog? That poor animal has no chance.
Given that I had already shown up to a dog appointment without a dog, I agreed.
On the drive home, I carefully mapped out my strategy. At one point, I briefly considered taking the Trazodone myself and seeing how Luka felt about driving.
The next day, I’m not entirely sure who was more anxious—me or Luka.
I secured him in the backseat as safely as possible without violating Labradoodle human rights. Miraculously, the drive was uneventful. I began feeling hopeful.
We arrived. The veterinarian came out again. This time, with great pride, I pointed to the backseat.
“I brought the dog,” I wanted a gold star for this.
I walked Luka around the yard, which was not easy because every smell in the Hill Country had apparently RSVP’d to greet him personally. He was overstimulated and suspicious for good reason. A few months before I’d dropped him off with a trainer for a six-week obedience course.
Inside, the office was one large room. On one side was the vet’s desk. On the other side, a couch. In between, there was a water bowl and a giant window with a peaceful view that did not reflect the emotional chaos unfolding inside.
I examined the couch. It was lightly coated in dog hair. “Lightly” in the way a ski slope is lightly dusted with snow. I’m not saying it had its own ecosystem, but I did feel the need to introduce myself before sitting down.
As a germaphobe, this was my moment of courage. I sat.
Luka immediately glued himself to my leg and began shaking. At that moment, we were both in distress. Luka just had the decency to be honest about it.
The appointment began. The veterinarian offered a range of suggestions for managing Luka’s anxiety. He assured me it would all be included in the materials he’d send over which was quite an optimistic gesture, given my demonstrated relationship with reading instructions.
At one point, Luka calmed slightly, walked to the water bowl, and took a drink. Then he approached the vet’s desk, sniffed around, and conducted what I assume was a professional evaluation.
The vet, without making eye contact, casually reached for a treat and extended it under the desk. Luka sniffed it and declined because apparently we are now too anxious to accept free snacks. He immediately returned to my side.
Throughout the entire appointment, the veterinarian never once looked at or touched Luka.
That’s when it hit me. I should have just walked in the day before holding an empty leash. There’s a very real chance we could have completed the entire appointment with an imaginary dog, and I’d be at home right now on my clean couch, happily on Zoom. Then again, if that had gone poorly, I’d likely be sitting in a human psychiatrist’s office with a referral from the canine one. So… probably despite my embarrassment, it all worked out for the best.
At the end of the appointment, the vet prescribed multiple medications, supplements, and tools.
Curious, I asked for Luka’s diagnosis.
“Anxiety is measured on a scale from one to five,” he explained. “Five being the most severe.”
“And Luka?”
“He’s a four.”
That felt accurate.
Luka is a four.
And I am currently hovering somewhere around a 3.5… depending on what’s living on that couch cushion.