Please don't...

Lots of resting, which means lots of thinking.  And, these days, thinking draws me to a quieter place ... and I lose days here.  SIGH.

I was thinking last night how Amos doesn't like to be touched or hugged, either.  I mean, when he is afraid, Amos wants to be comforted and most of that comfort comes from being held.  Sometimes, I bend down and sit back on my heals, and Amos tucks himself against me with a great sigh of relief.  If I try to stand before he is comforted, Amos will beg me to pick him up.  The tighter I hold him, the more he relaxes.  And when his trembling subsides, I set him down.

When I am needing him especially, I call out "Sweetie Pie."  Amos understands that I am asking him to come and be with me, whether I am suffering on the floor or on the toilet or wherever I have been stricken.  He comes and comforts me, not minding how tightly I clutch him.

But if he is not afraid and if I am not in deep need, Amos prefers not to be touched unless he initiates the contact.  He will press his body against me, whilst we are lounging about, but if I go to stroke his head or body or even paw, Amos will startle or flinch and then pull away from me.  I try not to feel hurt, for he is a rather affectionate pup, but I do wish I could stroke his back like a regular dog.

However, Amos is not a regular dog.  He is a dog with PTSD.  He is a dog who was forever changed by that blasted pit bull attack.  And he is a dog for whom touch is forever marred.

That is why, as I have noted, going to therapy with me is a double-edged sword for Amos.  He does not want to be separated from me in any way, shape, or form.  So, now that I sometimes take him with me when I have "going out" clothes on, Amos believes he should be with me at all times.  But going to therapy means that he is confronted over and over and over again by folk who believe that their need to touch him outweighs his desire not to be touched.  He finds a world that is not very supportive or understanding.  And it saddens and frustrates me to see my dear puppy dog forced to battle his fears over and over and over again.

Please don't touch me, shouts Amos as he flinches and tries to avoid the outstretched hands.
"Please don't touch him," I say, explaining that he was attacked by a pit bull and struggles with touch.
No one listens.

Even in the safety of home, Amos is often startled by my movement, often leaping off the sofa and scampering away in alarm when I accidentally nudge him whilst shifting my legs.  Anything and everything startles him, my little hypervigilent Fluffernutter.  Chief amongst those things is touch.

I get that.
I do.
I still wish it were different.

For him and for me.