As much as I hate to admit it, my journey from pet-less to dog Mama has been one cliché after another. Loretta came to me just before Christmas – dog charities say that you shouldn’t buy at that time, but the pandemic was on and everybody did anyway. She is a French Bulldog, currently sitting pretty in the top ten most popular breeds in the UK. To own a Frenchie is to belong to a fashionable club. And if I told you that Loretta was now the apple of my eye, my favourite thing and that I couldn’t imagine life without her, well, that would be true but another cliché.
What a cowed, miserable little thing Loretta was when she came to live with me. She followed me around, pathetically grateful for everything I did for her. She came from a group of breeders in Norfolk well known for being unscrupulous. They had bred her until she nearly died and were getting rid of her because no more litters meant no more money for them.
For Loretta’s first nine days with me, I thought that I had made a terrible mistake. I had a routine, a routine that I had to completely restructure after Loretta arrived. I know that this may not sound like much, but sticking to a timetable makes me feel that I can cope with life. Without a structure for every part of my day I would be in freefall, unsure of what to do and when, panicking constantly.
Loretta also needed constant reassurance. I once made the mistake of pushing the bathroom door closed when I went to the loo. Loretta forced the door open with her snout, took a flying leap and landed in my lap. She would always sit beside me, pressing up against me, quietly urgent. Part of me felt trapped: the autistic part of me that feels ill-equipped to deal the emotional dependence of others, to be precise. She was particularly clingy in the evenings – I couldn’t pace up and down then, I couldn’t flap or clap my hands as I usually did to relieve tension: all of that scared her. The advantage of living alone was that I could do all of these things that other people considered odd without an audience. Suddenly I was watched by two limpid brown eyes, all the time.
Ten days after Loretta arrived, I left her with my father for the morning and went off to do my Christmas grocery shop, thinking that I would be relieved at the respite. Instead, I missed Loretta terribly. I wandered around the supermarket bereft, as though I had a limb missing. When I got back, picked her up and was smothered with meaty tasting dog kisses, I knew that I had fallen in love with her.
Fast-forward four months, and Loretta is a settled little soul. She isn’t afraid to show her personality and can be capricious and gorgeously spoiled, demanding affection and cuddles on tap. She has a growing collection of squeaky toys, pink basket cushions and flowered collars. My parents love her even more than I do.
But, like me, Loretta struggles socially. For the first four years of her life she was never walked or socialised properly. Our daily walk around the village is a trial for both of us. My village is definitely a “doggy” place; poor Loretta has to make it past a bevy of dogs sat at gates, looking out of windows, wandering in gardens, some barking at her, some just staring. She lowers her head and scuttles onwards, scared out of her mind. If she sees a group of people walking towards us, she whinnies and tries to pull me away.
“It’s ok, darling,” I say, “there’s nothing to be scared of. They just want to be friends.” Loretta stares up at me, unconvinced. Truth be told, I am unconvinced by my ownoguc when it comes to other people.
Village life is an adjustment for me. In London, my habit of putting my head down, avoiding eye contact and getting where I need to be was accepted. In the country, that sort of behaviour just isn’t on. I know that I will have to say hello to every person that I pass. If my neighbours are out in their gardens then stopping to chat is perscribed. As soon as someone else drifts into view the frantic calculations begin in my head: how soon do I try and make eye contact? What greeting do I use? Will they stop at saying hello or want to talk?
I have to admit that I feel relief and no small amount of pride when it is over: chat accomplished, I can cheerily be on my way. I tell myself that it was good for me to be sociable, just as it is good for Loretta to be around other dogs.
“Do one thing a day that scares you”, said Eleanor Roosevelt. Us autistic lot do hundreds of things a day that scare us; things that neurotypical people do without thinking. We have to interact, read other people, place ourselves in environments that challenge us and cope with noise and unpredictability. Our brains are not wired for any of these things. But is fear an accurate description of what autistic people feel when forced into a situation that their brain is not wired to cope with?
Loretta is actually frightened of other dogs; I am only really afraid of the social interaction that being around others entails. I suppose that you could say that I am frightened of the noise that other people can make, or their faces being very aminated or close to mine. Exaggerated facial expressions or faces in close proximity are completely overstimulating and make me feel as though party poppers are being pulled inches away. But I am not actually afraid of other people unless they are particularly angry or confrontational. And when I am avoidant it is not of other people themselves; if I shy away from anything, it could be described as the side effects of people. Nothing personal, just volume tone, and distance is how I like to think of it.
There is a queer, autistic paradox of liking others, of being interested by them, of really achieving something when we engage with them, and having to counterbalance that with the sometimes-debilitating effect that other people can have on our mental stability. Each autistic person navigates this in their own way.
I force myself to smile and say hello, or to stop and chat, just as I force Loretta to be in a pack sometimes, too. Sometimes that makes me feel good, other times it is too much. I know that I am really happiest alone, just as Loretta does. And there’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, one of the of being autistic is finding contentment in your own company. So what if I am anti-social sometimes? Loretta and I know that there are benefits to being outside the pack.
