Dog Tales

Rose, week 10-ish: when progress looks like going sideways

You’ll remember our Romanian rescue dog Rose - the one that lives in a bush in our garden. Arriving soiled and terrified seems a long time ago.

A few weeks ago I thought we were on a fairly clean trajectory. Bowl moves a little closer. Rose tolerates it. Repeat. Inch-by-inch, like we’re laying railway track into her nervous system.

Then we stalled.

Not in a dramatic, crash-and-burn way. More in that quietly maddening way where everything looks almost fine, but nothing is reliably moving forward. Rose would come up onto the decking, then do the familiar back-and-forth between “I want this” and “absolutely not”. She’d stretch on the patio, do a quick trot, then retreat to the den like she’d remembered she’d left the oven on. Some days she’d be calm, other days skittish for no obvious reason. The sort of inconsistency that makes you start blaming the weather, the wind, the phase of the moon, and possibly the vibe in Mercury.

And then we had a wobble that was on us.

Olive went out, barked, and chased her. Not malicious, just… Olive being a pug shaped chaos grenade with a voice like a fire alarm. Rose shot straight back into her den. I checked on her, then backed off, then gave her something good to chew and let her settle. It was a reminder that fearful dogs don’t just learn from what you do deliberately; they learn from what happens around them. A single “surprise predator” moment can spend the entire day’s courage budget in one go.

I felt stuck, if I’m honest. Which is a ridiculous thing to say about a dog eating her dinner near a door, until you realise the real goal isn’t “eat nearer the house”. The goal is “feel safe enough to join the household”. The bowl is just the bribery.

So we changed tactics.

The decking route had become loaded: too much line-of-sight, too much risk of a sudden Olive appearance, too much mental effort. Rose didn’t need a harder challenge. She needed a better setup. We diverted the food path around the patio towards a quieter utility room door. Less exposure. Less chance of being seen, barked at, chased. More control.

And almost immediately, she softened.

The first few feeds on the new route felt like watching a system reboot. She’d still do the old habit of checking the decking, like she was looking for the previous version of the programme. Then she’d “figure it out” and commit to the new route. That moment matters. It’s not just hunger; it’s learning. Curiosity running alongside fear, instead of being crushed by it.

Then came the little signs that don’t look like much unless you’ve been living them.

She started lingering. Not just eating and vanishing, but hanging around for seconds, then minutes. She did a downward dog stretch in view, as if to say, “I can be vulnerable and nothing happens.” She toileted while I was in sight, which is a bigger trust marker than most people realise. She began wandering further across the garden, tail wagging, not in a frantic appeasement way, but in a “I’m doing a normal dog thing” way. On the good days she started to move like she owned the lawn, not like she was trespassing on it.

Even the setbacks started to look different.

The weather has been doing what British weather does best: turning your carefully arranged plans into damp confetti. One night the tarp over Rose’s shelter collapsed again. I woke to her doing a little wolf howl. Just once, then silence. The next day, when I had to go right into her den to repair things, she skirted out, then came back in as soon as I returned to a safe distance. That’s the pattern I want: “I can move away, and you won’t follow. I can come back, and it’s still safe.”

And then, this week, it started to feel like it’s tipping.

A few days now with Rose right at the utility door. Not negotiating it. Not doing the anxious back-and-forth. Coming up quickly. Waiting near the bowl before I’ve even got back inside. Staring at me, staring at Michelle, taking us both in like she’s starting to catalogue us as part of the environment rather than a threat in it.

Tonight she ate on the step like it was nothing. Then she curled up there for a moment. Not long. Not dramatically. Just long enough to make my chest tighten in that ridiculous way it does when you realise something is actually working.

Progress doesn’t look like a straight line. It looks like a dog who has spent years in survival mode discovering that “safe” can be predictable. That humans can be boring. That doors don’t have to mean danger. That being seen doesn’t have to mean being chased.

And the weirdest part is how quickly you start recalibrating your own definition of success.

Once upon a time, I would have thought “came to the door and ate” was a footnote. Now it’s a headline. A tail wag in the garden is a minor miracle. A stretch in view is a vote of confidence. A quiet howl in the night is just a nervous system adjusting, not a catastrophe. The milestones get smaller, but they land harder.

We’re not done. She still won’t let us approach her properly. Touch is a distant horizon. She still retreats to the den for most of the day. But she’s no longer only surviving. She’s starting to choose.

And that, I think, is the whole point.