Husky is a rescue, they guessed him at 5-6 years old, l’ve had a guess he’s 3-4 because of his behavior. He is probably the worst case of separation anxiety I have ever seen. He has destroyed…….read more
Husky is a rescue, and when I adopted him, they guessed him to be about 5-6 years old. But spending time with him, seeing the energy he carries, and watching the way he reacts to the world around him, I’ve always suspected he’s closer to 3-4. There’s a youthful recklessness in him, a stubborn vibrancy that feels a little too raw to belong to a dog approaching senior years. His spirit, though scarred by whatever past he lived through, burns brightly, and sometimes uncontrollably.
His separation anxiety is by far the worst I’ve ever witnessed. It’s not just whimpering or barking when I leave — it’s sheer panic. He’s destroyed doors, ripped blinds off windows, clawed at walls until his paws bled. One time, he managed to shred an entire couch in the span of an hour. Not out of anger, but pure, unfiltered terror. Every time I leave, even for just a few minutes, it’s as if he thinks I’m never coming back. No amount of toys, treats, or calming music can distract him. His mind locks onto one thought: abandonment.
I’ve tried everything. Crate training ended in disaster; he broke free, injuring himself in the process. I tried gradual desensitization — stepping outside for a minute, then returning, then five minutes, then longer — but progress was painstakingly slow and often undone by a single bad experience. Medications helped a little, but turned him into a shadow of himself, sleepy and disconnected. And that’s not who he is. Husky deserves to be vibrant, even if it means more work for both of us.
Despite all the destruction and heartache, there’s a deep, unbreakable bond forming between us. He follows me from room to room, always keeping me within his line of sight. If I sit down, he lays his head on my foot; if I move, he lifts his head immediately, ready to follow. His loyalty is absolute, overwhelming even. Some might find it suffocating, but I find it heartbreaking and beautiful. He loves without reserve, without fear — except for the fear that he’ll lose me.
In many ways, Husky’s behavior mirrors the trauma of abandonment. Whatever happened in his past taught him that love was not a guarantee, that people could disappear without warning. I remind myself of this on the harder days, when I come home to find another door frame chewed or another favorite shoe destroyed. He isn’t being “bad.” He’s just terrified. Healing doesn’t come in a straight line; it loops and backtracks and sometimes seems to disappear entirely before suddenly moving forward again.
Every day with Husky is a lesson in patience, resilience, and unconditional love. We’re working together — slowly, imperfectly — to build a world where he feels safe enough to trust that I’ll always come back. Some days, he can handle an hour alone without panic. Other days, five minutes is too much. But he’s trying. And so am I. Together, we’re rewriting the story of his life, one slow, hopeful chapter at a time.
