In 2000, I was living with my boyfriend, the son of Uzi Keren, who was the advisor to the Israeli Prime Minister on rural affairs. I claimed my home on picturesque Kibbutz Ein-Gev situated on the banks of the Sea of Galilee in the North of Israel – a place that quickly became my own little paradise. For a few good months, our relationship was on the rocks. I was deeply afraid to be alone. And I didn’t want to leave that beautiful kibbutz. The picture you see from its banks requires no words.
They say that when a dog take over a relationship, it means your relationship is doomed and that should be heeded as a warning sign. But I firmly held unto the belief that we’d find a way to make things good again even with my boyfriend’s wolf-husky. I hated that dog. It wasn’t your typical dog – forever wild and highly unpredictable with no hope of being broken in. He took pity on the stray and “Bendi” would become our “child.”
Thirty year old “gentle” dog lover me wanted to test his wildness and because I hated him (and I also knew my boyfriend was crazy about it) so, I wanted to “get into the arena” with Bendi as a way to get back at my boyfriend. Who could outsmart who? I knew better than to mess with this dog, but mess with him I did and suddenly, this animal turned into a wild beast. No sooner did I “play” with him, he lashed out at me. That first attack I will never forget. Once he got hold me, he attacked me even further in the name of self-defense as if he was wrestling with a young animal. I was that young animal.
Suddenly, I found myself rolling on the dirt of our front yard as far away from him as possible – trying to protect myself for dear life afraid he might attack other parts of my body. I screamed, but no-one came to my rescue. I tried scooting as far away as possible away from the dirt of that small front yard where he’d stay during most of the midday hours, and to the adjacent walkway, but there was still a lot of leash left. Until I could extricate myself from this beast, he would sink his teeth even deeper into my flesh and puncture the skin of my hands several times over.
Blood was everywhere – my hands, arms and clothes. How the heck did this all happen? I managed to scoot back while the beast looked on – tongue panting, mouth open wide in a freakish sort of smile. What the heck just happened? He eyed me (how he eyed me!) while I howled. I was officially his victim. A victim. We both knew it.
The first thing I did after this incident was to implore Itay Keren to get rid of that dog, but he flatly refused. It was either myself or that dog. So I stayed. Yes, stayed. For fear of being alone.
By giving into this beast (it took weeks for the scars on my hands to heal), I victimized myself. I stayed silent. i bought into the idea that this Itay Keren was the only person for me. It was quite a dysfunctional living situation I must admit. But I couldn’t bear the thought of being alone.
I stayed passive (with a passive-aggressive dog, no doubt) until our relationship finally stormed over, and I had no choice but to leave where I’d lick my wounds both literally and metaphorically at yet another kibbutz kibbutz known as Neot Mordechay founded by Holocaust survivors and home to the famous Neot shoes. Had I found the courage to walk out during the warning signs, I wouldn’t have scars on both of my hands. Thankfully, the dog was checked for rabies, but I was the one who suffered. Not the dog.
Sometimes you are thrown into a situation where you have no choice but to face your fears head first. Clearly, love did not rule in our favor, and though I couldn’t see past my tears and sorrow, love would sprout tenfold and two kibbutzims later, when I’d come into contact with another kibbutz member at Sde Nehemiya who would become my partner. We married alongside the shores of the Jordan River in 2003.
All thoughout our marriage, I largely though kept this fear a “secret.” When we left Israel for good in 2007, there was a part of the fear that had placated. Maybe remembering Bendi and my relationship with Itay suddenly didn’t seem relevant. I don’t know.
But during those fifteen years, I kept seeing big dogs (especially huskies) as wildebeasts. Each time I’d pass a big dog on a leash (especially a husky) Bendi’s face would emerge. And then the image of me rolling in the dirt. Nightmares would follow after that incident where I’d scream, but without a voice. I was a living nightmare of trauma.
While waiting at the bus stop recently with my son here in our hometown of Pittsburgh, a husky and its owner walked on by. My son knows nothing about my fear so the encounter was innocuous. While the owner talked with the traffic guard, the dog nuzzled against my son. Clearly, it was friendly, but the memory of Bendi started to emerge. Bu then there was mine: What the heck could a trained husky dog do to me in Pittsburgh? It’s on a leash. It’s with its owner. You have no reason to be scared. I even was able to pet the dog a few times, and nothing happened. No lashing. No fear. No bite. No hospital. No scars.
And yet tonight a husky dog jumped on me by accident. I quickly put up my hand and crossed the street while the owner pulled her dog away in response. Go figure.
When you want to get over a fear associated with a certain memory, you need courage, but that courage isn’t readily available because you’ve been hurt and emotionally damaged. During those fifteen years, I was afraid to even admit I was afraid of dogs. (Before Bendi, I was a compassionate dog lover.) You have to accept the fear is now a part of you, but have the courage to also work with the fear when it comes up. It’s a process each time. Some days, I’m strong while others I’m not. And that’s okay.
In many situations, when you find yourself without a choice, you also find yourself needing copious amounts of courage to get over the fear.
Thankfully, I am supported by a loving husband who would never put me in a situation where I’d have to choose between a beast and human being.
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