LETTERS FROM HOME: THE SEARCH FOR A PHARMACOLOGICAL CURE TO BEING HANK

Dear Pat,

Our dog Hank is on drugs.

Befuddled, unpredictable Hank has become a citizen of Prozac Nation.

The decision to medicate falls in the category of last resorts. We have tried love and understanding, and we've attempted to quell his fears by acting more alpha when we're around the pack of two.

We have engaged dog trainers and even tried the advice of a psychic who claims we can read our pets' minds. And vice versa.

But Hank, a dog scared of rustling weeds, still yearns to greet strangers with his teeth. Just saying no didn't work so we said yes to better moods through chemistry.

Every dog trainer we know says a fear biter is almost impossible to transform. One suggested a muzzle but Hank's fights with the restraint broke DC's heart. "We need a dog whisperer," she said.

But a trainer who's a wizard with incorrigible dogs concluded the best thing we could do for Hank and for ourselves is to dispatch him to that big doghouse in the sky. DC was in tears.

Prozac it is, though DC's mother has suggested her daughter might benefit more from it than Hank will.

Hank is like a friend who unloads on strangers after "tee many martoonis" or one whose mental instability occasionally batters an otherwise warm relationship. Usually he runs for a corner when we want to pet him, but sometimes he lowers his head, submits and grunts guarded thanks.

We have grown to love his squirreliness right alongside his better qualities. He is a good pal to us and our parents.

But Hank has nipped my brother and a couple of the nieces. DC wants the fantasy in which Hank and Lucy prance to the door wagging their stubbed tails as our guests, the McGillicuddys, arrive for dinner. The reality is that the thunderstruck McGillicuddys would receive a snarling welcome. If brave enough to come through the door and sit down anyway they would soon find Lucy's head perched on a knee and Hank circling, hyperventilating.

Time to eat.

Last weekend, my 10-year-old niece Casey and her friend Chelsea came out to the cabin on Castor River to swim. The game plan was to keep Hank on a chain, but Hank dislikes being restrained. More hyperventilating.

We thought the girls would be safe in the boat but then Hank found the courage to swim out to us and wanted in, too. When he couldn't manage it he began flaying the water in circles and going under. DC received a terrific scratch in the rescue.

The rule at the cabin was: girls inside, dogs outside. Or vice versa. The misadventures resembled a Marx Brothers movie. Some screams, no bites.

There's a good swimming hole below the cabin where the branch rushes to meet the main channel. DC and Lucy and I dove in. Hank fretted for a few minutes then plunged, then flailed, forgetting how to swim.

That's what fear does. What you know disappears, your sense of security unravels.

Sometimes Hank's life seems like one prolonged panic attack. What can reassure him? No words I know.

The results aren't in on Hank on Prozac. Our veterinarian will evaluate him in a month. Putting Hank to sleep isn't possible. DC recalls the day after the wreck she and the two dogs were in some time back. Both still traumatized by the collision, she and Hank lay on the couch together at home waiting for Lucy to come home from the pet hospital.

Both are made anxious still by riding in cars. Each knows how the other feels.

Love, Sam

~Sam Blackwell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.