Living With a Dog Wired Too Tightly

Dulci is a complex and challenging dog. She’s probably a mix of Basenji, Husky, and Podenco. Each of these breeds was shaped by landscapes that demanded self-reliance, intensity, and vigilance.

From the Basenji, Dulci has inherited a quick-reactive temperament and an almost feline sensitivity to space, touch, and sudden changes. Basenjis are clever and independent, dogs who feel things acutely and express those feelings in fast, clear bursts. They are not built for long fuses.

From the Husky, she has the athleticism, the high energy, the instinct to chase, and the strong-willed streak that made northern dogs capable of pulling sleds through storms. Huskies are social but excitable, and once their adrenaline rises, it’s difficult for them to shift back into calm. Dulci’s tendency to get swept up in play — and then overwhelmed by it — echoes this lineage.

And then there’s the Podenco element, common in this part of the world: desert runners bred for speed, alertness, and stamina. Podencos are watchful, lean-bodied, and tuned to every sound and movement. Their nervous systems are primed for motion, not stillness. They are sensitive dogs — both physically and emotionally — and easily overstimulated in tight domestic spaces.

When you blend these three lineages, you get a dog with intelligence, along with a low arousal threshold (meaning that it doesn’t take much to overstimulate her nervous system), a slow recovery threshold (meaning that it takes her a long time to calm down, once triggered), and high energy. It’s a magnificent combination — but it’s not an easy one to manage, especially in a multi-dog household.

Most of the time, the five dogs get along fine. Each is very different and has mostly adjusted to having the newest dog, Spunky, in the mix. (I inherited her when my friend Holly passed away earlier this year.) However, two days ago, I realized something had to change.

It began the way it always does: play that started light and loose, encouraged by small, fearless Spunky, the twelve-pound instigator who thinks she’s the boss of everybody. Four of the five dogs were rolling around together in my studio. It seemed harmless until it suddenly wasn’t.

I had just finished a long stretch of teaching and lay down on my sofa chair to rest for a moment. As the play between Dulci, Spunky, and Rico intensified, Chica, all thirty-five pounds of her, climbed onto my lap to feel safe. I suddenly realized that in that position, I was both vulnerable and trapped. And Dulci was circling, her energy rising the way it always does, sparked by Spunky’s sharp little play-snaps.

I’ve lived with this pack long enough to know when the storm was going to hit. Dulci’s fuse is short; Chica’s is longer, but once set off, things escalate quickly.

I carefully tried to get up, not wanting to disturb the precarious balance. But my movement shifted the energy, and the spark ignited. Before I could get to my feet, Dulci and Chica were fighting, teeth flashing, bodies twisting, the room collapsing into chaos. Dulci had Chica by the neck. I grabbed both collars with my bare hands and pulled them apart — the kind of grab you make before you have time to think about your own safety. I felt teeth catch my thumb; blood welled up. But I got them separated. I called for help from my husband, who opened my studio door. I pushed Dulci out.

And then I sat there, holding my hand, and I understood that something fundamental needed to change. I could rehome Dulci, but who would take on a dog like her in San Miguel, where so many dog adopters are older and can’t manage a high-energy dog? And I would not put her down unless I had no other ethical choice. So I began researching whether there was a medical way to manage her emotional and behavioral state.

I began studying the differences between aggression driven by fear or frustration, and reactivity driven by arousal or over-stimulation. And Dulci fit the last category perfectly.

One line stayed with me: Some dogs cannot regulate themselves without medical support. It is not their fault. And I finally understood something both simple and profound: Dulci needed help.

I talked with my vet, and we discussed sertraline, trazodone, clonidine, and gabapentin. Each one is used to treat different aspects of the behavior Dulci was presenting. We decided to use sertraline as the long-term treatment, and to use trazodone also in the short term until the sertraline became active in her system (about four weeks). Trazodone works in about an hour.

Yesterday morning, I gave her the first 25 mg dose of sertraline, a standard starting point for a dog her size, as well as 50 mg of trazodone.

Within hours, I saw a version of Dulci I have rarely seen. There were no raised hackles or sudden growls. She played gently with Spunky, and there were no trigger moments.

Now that things are calm, I realize how long I’d been living in a state of vigilance, watching Dulci constantly for signs that she was getting over-aroused. Medication is allowing her to be who she is without drowning in her own adrenaline. It gave her back to herself. It has also given me a sense of safety and restored balance in my home.

Above is a photo of Dulci, taken during her first day on medication. She looks alert, but calm and balanced.

(12/16 Update: Dulci is now on 25 mg sertraline daily. She no longer needs the trazodone.)